


A Dance of Love and Duty

by Hopelesslygazingthestars



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort, Dornish Culture & Customs (A Song of Ice and Fire), Elia Martell Deserves Better, Elia Martell Fanworks Week, Elia Martell-centric, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Femslash, Fluff and Angst, Forbidden Love, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Minor Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen, Miscarriage, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, POV Ashara Dayne, POV Elia Martell, Protective Siblings, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:02:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 51
Words: 135,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22534417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopelesslygazingthestars/pseuds/Hopelesslygazingthestars
Summary: Ashara, Arthur, Elia; their stories ended in horrific tragedy, but before that they lived, and they loved. Despite the confines of duty and burdens of love, they too had danced to the Song of Ice and Fire. This story takes us through the lives of those lost stars whose voices we did not hear in the series. It focuses on Ashara Dayne's life, and her great loves; Arthur Dayne, Elia Martell and Ned Stark. It reveals different tragic love stories and unravels Robert's rebellion from another perspective.
Relationships: Arthur Dayne & Ashara Dayne, Arthur Dayne & Elia Martell, Arthur Dayne & Rhaegar Targaryen, Ashara Dayne/Brandon Stark/Ned Stark, Ashara Dayne/Elia Martell, Ashara Dayne/Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Ashara Dayne/Oberyn Martell, Elia Martell/Arthur Dayne, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Comments: 100
Kudos: 117





	1. Starborn

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Take this ride with me through Robert's Rebellion through the eyes of characters we don't know anywhere nearly enough on. I love to hear feedback and have ideas sent to me, so leave your comments and see where it goes! 
> 
> x

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An Introduction to House Dayne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This is Game of Thrones, so there will be violence, rape/non-con, depression, self-harm, substance abuse, mild sexual content, language, and maybe some suicidal ideation.
> 
> I do not own any of the characters or profit from it. I am simply taking a walk in GRRM magnificent world.
> 
> Chapter 1: Ashara

**Starborn**

In the great castle of Starfall in the highest tower Palestone Sword, Ashara Dayne was born to Lady Alyssa Dayne and Ser Vaemond Waters. Born the same time as the tragedy of Summerhall, many visitors would say that she carried the same solemn deep indigo eyes as another born that terrible day. As an inquisitive seven-year old, more concerned with the wonders of the looming towers of her sunny Dornish home; tales of some far away Prince affected her very little.

Although a timid and observant girl, she had an endless amount of questions about her home Island at the mouth of the Torrentine. She wondered if the inconceivably tall tower tops truly touched the skies and the stars; and thought that perhaps the fallen star in which the first King Dayne of the Torrentine raised his castle never fell at all.

Ashara wondered a great many things about her home; but most of all, she speculated about the people who lived there. She had two elder brothers; Aethan and Arthur, who were closer to her than any other.

Aethan, the future Lord of Starfall, six years her senior was exceedingly responsible but not without a light side to him. Already as tall as a grown man, he had Ser Waters same ashy golden hair and sea-blue eyes, and the only thing that belonged to House Dayne was their mother’s dark russet skin. He was his father’s son, and their mother would often say he was more of the northern kingdoms than he was Starborn. Yet, despite his short time as a squire in Driftmark for Lord Velaryon, he was respected as a son of Dorne, and was their pride and heir.

To Ashara, he was simply her brother; always kind, protective and had a smile reserved only for her. Aethan was who Ashara and Arthur looked up to, and he made no fuss at Arthur’s emulation of him, and Ashara’s admiration.

If Aethan was loved in Starfall, Arthur was worshiped. He was the perfect mix of his father and mother; both in looks and personality. His hair was an earthy brown hue with sandy-golden streaks, his skin somewhere between Ser Waters smooth alabaster and Lady Dayne’s rich russet. His eyes were truly magical however; in the sunlight they reflected the sea’s capturing blue and at midnight’s darkness they were starkissed violet. Ashara was sure he would be the most handsome in all the seven kingdoms, but she supposed it was her veneration for him that allowed her to come to that conclusion.

They were inseparable as he was just two years her elder, and the apple of her eye. Arthur called Ashara his shadow, for there was nowhere he might be where she was not.

Arthur was mischief, joy and talent. It seemed that everything he touched became as golden as his skin. He was masterful at all activities he tried his hand to; running, archery, jousting and even sewing when Ashara pleaded with him to join her.

However, it was his skill with the sword that was most impressive of all. Even at his young age of nine, there were already whisperings about a person finally being worthy of House Dayne’s ancestral weapon Dawn. There had not been a Sword of the Morning, the knight who bears Dawn, in 3 generations. At every Starborn Tournament, the games held to find those deemed worthy of Dawn, there had been none deserving since Ser Ulrick Dayne. The murmurs of Arthur’s talent had gotten louder as of late, with even Ser Waters, the Silent Knight; discussing holding another Starborn Tournament with Arthur in mind.

It was so very confusing to Ashara that she could adore her brothers so much when they were so close to their father, who she had almost no relationship with at all. Ser Vaemond Waters was the bastard son of Lord Boremund Valeryon of the Crownlands. He was a pale giant with hair as golden as the beaches of Starfall and sea-blue haunting eyes; he stuck-out among the shorter assortment of brown-skinned natives. He was pensive and reticent, never smiling and remained resolutely dour; with his only indication of approval being a slow nod he gave from time to time.

Ashara had long suspected her guarded father loved only his sons. For it was only with them he spoke most of all; not in court where his Lady wife might deliberate and delegate, nor in more private moments with only his children and wife. It was only at her last name day that Ashara even realised that this huge knight, who towered at least a head above the people around him, was _her_ father. Arthur teased her relentlessly when she finally plucked up the courage to ask him who ‘ _Ser Waters’_ was to her. Ser Waters seemed to engage and value little aside from training his sons in the art of swordsmanship and seamanship.

Ashara had heard the men of the Starfall ships talking one afternoon. They discussed Ser Waters alias, ‘ _The Silent Knight’;_ which came as a result of not only his battle prowess, having been knighted by Prince Daeron Targaryen, but because his Lord father cut out his tongue when his trueborn son Lucerys Velaryon had been born. Lord Velaryon had cut his young bastard, aged ten, so as to avoid Ser Waters usurping Lucerys, in future, as heir to the Lord of The Tides and Master of Driftmark.

Young Ashara found it strange that bastards were seen as such a stain in the north considering she had bastard relatives who were treated no different than any other nobility of her household.

Ser Waters rarely spoke to Ashara aside from hushed curt instructions, commands to listen to Lady Dayne or follow along with her Septa. She did not understand his indifference for those around him. Yet, despite his distance, he still always took her along with Aethan and Arthur. He would carry her aboard his ships, seat her between himself and Lady Dayne during court and always perched her within eyeshot whilst he trained her brothers.

When Ashara would broach the subject of her father to her mother, Lady Dayne would not say any unkind words against him; repeating over the same words to young Ashara.

“Ser Waters is everything a knight should be; courageous and strong. He does not know what to do with a daughter for all he has ever known are brothers. It does not matter whether he loves you, you mine to love alone.”

Her Lady mother, Alyssa Dayne, the only remaining child to Lord Andrew Dayne and Ashara Allyrion, was the polar opposite of her father in every way. Where Ser Waters was stoic, she was emotional; where he was still, she was boisterous; and where he was distant in his care, she was affectionate. These qualities made Ashara love and worship her Lady mother far more than her father.

Sometimes, when she might ponder about her mother and father, she could not help but think how odd they looked together. Lady Dayne was a russet-skinned woman with dark indigo eyes and long curly hair; and the definition of beauty to Ashara’s eyes. Where she equated to love, Ser Waters equated to confusion. 

Yet, the Purple Lady of Starfall was also somewhat of an enigma to her daughter. She was a woman capable of intense light and joy; yet, possessed a great darkness and extreme melancholy. Starfall’s general mood seemed to somehow be based off her mother’s moods. The days where the sun was high in the sky and the heat scorching, she knew the Lady of Starfall was in particularly high spirits. Other days, when the rain might fall heavily, the clouds roar thunderously, and the seas crash violently against the cliffs; Ashara was certain her mother was crippled by her own mind’s torments. 

Consequently, Ashara thought that perhaps she ought to be called the Grey Lady instead, for the dark cloud which engulfed her mother completely. At these times, her mother would retreat to her quarters in Torrentine Tower, unable to leave for weeks at a time. Somehow, the household and court still ran; with Aethan taking over her responsibilities, even at his age of three and ten, whilst Arthur guarded her room, convinced he was already a knight.

Nonetheless, even with these bouts of unpredictable reclusiveness her Lady mother’s doors would always open for young Ashara. She was always prepared with song and dance in attempts to lift her mother’s spirits; for whilst Aethan was her pride, and Arthur her protector; Ashara was her joy.

Ashara might dance for hours at a time, if it meant seeing Lady Alyssa’s dazzling smile. Yet, when even her dancing no longer drew out a smile, she would curl up against her and tell her stories to draw the light back to her mother’s violet eyes.

Once the melancholia passed, her mother’s tinkling laugh and loud personality would return; almost as if there were two different people inhabiting one body.

One day, Ashara asked about the Purple Lady’s sorrow and her Lady mother simply whispered to her about apparitions.

“Sometimes my ghosts call out to me and will not allow me to hear anything else.”

When she asked her Septa what Lady Dayne meant, the old woman divulged stories of the Dayne curse of the previous Purple Ladies; whose stars all fell into the sea.

The first to descend had been Lady Dyanna Dayne, the great-grandmother of King Aerys. She had married for love and her house paid for it. She plunged herself into the sea from Torrentine Tower when she found out her husband, Maekar I Targaryen, who would one-day ascend the throne, murdered her twin-brother Ser Ulrick Dayne, the last Sword of the Morning.

Ashara’s cousin, Dyanna Sandstar, would mutter her namesake died from the Targaryen curse; what that curse was, she would never divulge. 

Some say, Lady Ashara Allyrion, had jumped to her death from Starfire Tower, in pursuit of her sons who had been playing and accidentally fell in. Quieter, others say, Lady Alyssa pushed her mother and young brothers; when she found out she had been the one to arrange the betrothal to the bastard of House Velaryon.

The last Purple Lady, Allyria Dayne, Lady Alyssa’s elder sister, jumped from the same tower a short while after her mother when her husband died in a Targaryen war; the Blackfyre Rebellion.

From the moment Ashara heard of the curse, the night of a frightful thunderstorm, it gripped her so tightly she fled her own rooms for Arthur’s quarters. She was petrified that she or her Lady mother would succumb to the same fate; fallen and reborn. A terrifying image haunted her, of bloated bodies washed up on sea, spirits gone to re-join the Dayne ancestors, as twinkling stars in the nights’ sky until the dawn might come to ferry them away.

When Ashara confessed her fears to her brother at the break of dawn as the storm roared violently against the cliffs below, he whispered words she would carry forever.

“When your nights get dark and menacing clouds shroud the stars, I will be the light which brings the dawn and guides you home. I have got you sister; I will not allow you to fall. I will stay with you _always._ ”


	2. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara ponders whether the gods rule fate or whether men do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to tell the story from different perspectives. I think Arthur's POV will be very important to understand Ashara better.

**Fate**

One afternoon, nearing his sister’s tenth name day, Arthur sought out Ashara after his and Aethan’s tutoring with Maester Murlin.

He discovered her by the hidden rock caves where she occasionally played with her friends, in the times she was not with him. Along with Ashara, he found their cousin Dyanna Sandstar, the bastard daughter of Lord Derrik Dayne of High Hermitage; and her best friend Wylla, whose mother was Ashara’s wet-nurse and for that they styled themselves sisters.

The three wore similar robes; Wylla wore his sister’s borrowed purple skirts, Dyanna donned High Hermitage’s deep violet, and Ashara’s dress was Starfall’s lilac with silver stars at the broach. At quick glance it would be easy to mistake them for one another or the very least sisters.

They were all of a similar height and slim, with fair russet skin like Arthur’s, unlike Lady Dayne’s darker reddish-brown, which his father once quietly referred to as Sandy Dornish. Their hair was likewise dark almost black, aside from Dyanna’s which had a streak of silver. Ashara shared House Dayne’s purple eyes with Dyanna, where Wylla’s were a common Dornish brown.

Yet, Ashara stood out, for whilst the other two were pretty, she was positively beautiful. Arthur often wondered if her beauty would be a burden instead of a blessing.

Despite their appearances, the three girls could not differ further in personality. Dyanna was sharp and serious, Arthur might even say a little arrogant; yet extremely talkative. Ashara and Wylla followed her as the elder. Wylla was quiet but not shy and always happy to engage in whatever activity the others decided.

However, Ashara was timid and thoughtful far more than a girl her age ought to be. As she grew, Arthur saw there was a fire awaiting to light inside of her, and only a rare few people including himself saw the glimpses of flames.

Ashara often spoke highly of Arthur’s talents but it seemed to him, she was unaware they were very similar in that regard. She seemed to excel at every of the creative womanly arts she put her hand to. She was proficient in singing, playing musical instruments, sewing and embroidering. Most of all, she was close to magically gifted at dancing. Although Ashara was shy, when comfortable, she came alive; dancing like her star had risen to do it. She was much like their father in that regard; for he was resolutely silent until he came to life doing what he loved, sword fighting; which Arthur thought he did much like a dance.

When Arthur approached the girls, he found discarded drums; thus, he knew his sister had been dancing again. It warmed his heart to see it because ever since the night of that frightful storm, where she had come to him whispering of curses, he had noticed an almost indiscernible foreboding in his sister’s bright amethyst eyes. 

“I heard my mother tell Aethan that the Lord of Light has already written what will happen in our lives, that the paths we walk along are set in stone, do you think that is true?” Ashara asked to no one in particular.

Arthur could imagine Dyanna rolling her eyes athough he could not yet see her face.

He knew their mother’s faith of R’hllor was very uncommon in Westeros. Yet, they had been raised with both, worshiping in the Sept with their father in the mornings, and praying with the Red Priestess Kinvara at nightfire.

“I think we must live as the gods have said and obey the _Seven’s_ commands. We may make our own choices but only with the gods blessing.” Dyanna responded immediately.

“Then, what do you think your fate will be?” Ashara wondered as she lay on the sand facing up to Palestone Tower.

“I will bring the dawn of course!” Arthur said jumping into the water, surprising the girls.

They shrieked as Arthur’s splash sent water spraying in their direction.

“Didn’t anyone ever tell you it is rude to eavesdrop in on ladies’ conversations?” Dyanna responded annoyed.

“It’s a good thing there aren’t any _ladies_ here then, just three little children.” He said cheekily sending another wave of water in her direction.

“Must your brother always follow you around Asha, does he not have any friends of his own?”

Dyanna never much cared for Arthur and it pleased him to no end to irritate her.

“Don’t be rude Dyanna, I am sure milord Arthur is the sweetest brother in all of the Seven Kingdoms.” Wylla defended promptly.

“That is so very kind Wylla.” He said winking at the girl.

She blushed furiously, as she often did when Arthur was around.

“A _little_ Lord who plays at being a knight and hides behind his sister’s skirts will not be the Sword of the Morning.” Dyanna huffed.

For as much as Arthur loved to antagonize his cousin, she sometimes gave back with biting words which made him regret having poked at her in the first place.

“I am still growing, and mother says I’ll likely be even taller than Ser Waters when I am a man grown.” He retorted.

“And yet, Ashara is not even ten and she is as tall as you. I think you might grow up to be a half man like the baker’s son.”

She flashed him her wicked smirk and it vexed him instantaneously.

It was one of his insecurities that Ashara was already his height and Aethan had been tall when he had been Arthur’s age. He would not let _her_ know that, however.

“Your older brother is famous for not being able to wield a sword, and your father says the babe Gerold is too sickly and will struggle to even walk, let alone fight in any King’s war. You’re just jealous that Ashara has me to protect her while your brothers don’t even like you.”

Dyanna rolled her eyes before taking leave, much less inclined to put up with Arthur that afternoon.

“Don’t mind her, her mood swings have been as frequent as the sea’s winds of late. She thinks herself a woman grown now she is ten and two.” Wylla added, once Dyanna disappeared.

“I never do. So, come on then, what do you think awaits your future?”

He asked them both, but his eyes wandered to Ashara whose expression seemed seeped in sadness. He noticed she had barely so much as lifted her head at his exchange with Dyanna when usually she would maintain the peace. As of late, he could not discern whether she was becoming more pensive like their father or if the Purple Lady’s melancholy was affecting her. 

“I don’t know much of any gods but I’d quite like to marry a famous knight like Lady Dayne and bare him many beautiful sons.” Wylla answered shyly.

“I can’t think of any knight more famous and true than a Sword of the Morning.” Arthur added with a dazzling smile.

Her tanned skin turned the colour of blood oranges at his words.

He was fond enough of the girl to say such a thing, mayhaps only because of her affection for his little sister. He had met no other girl he cared for enough to even consider marriage. He found the daughters of noblemen close to insufferable and entitled like Dyanna. Although a plain looking girl, Wylla was kind and easy to be around. Arthur’s father said those were the most important qualities he could hope for in a wife.

Yet, he doubted his Lady mother would allow the Sword of the Morning that. He didn’t voice that thought, however.

“What of you milady Asha, what do you think your fate might be?” Wylla said, diverting their attention after a few moments of quiet.

Ashara stared up intensely at the barely visible window of Palestone Sword Tower as she answered.

“I think my fate is promised to be a painful journey to a tragic end.”

Her voice was seeped in fear and Arthur could hear his mother’s words in her voice, the same anxious words she would often ramble during the darker times of her melancholy spells.

“Why would your fate be so morbid sweet sister?” Arthur asked moving to her.

“ _From the Fallen Star, We Bring Dawn..._ ” She spoke the engrained words of House Dayne.

Their house motto, which the Starborn children of House Dayne learnt before even knowing how to call for their mother or father.

“…for we are fallen and reborn.” He added, saying their unofficial response to the words.

He took her hand in hopes of easing the dark thoughts which had begun to plague her.

“Who said bringing dawn would be some great painless honour?” She asked rhetorically.

He blocked her view of the tower above as he sat beside her laying form, coaxing her tormented eyes to meet his own.

“There is no point in worrying about a future you can never be certain will be true.”

“And yet, _you_ would train day and night for a future we are all certain will be true. Mother said your fate is written in the stars and that your name will be remembered for as long as men have tongues.” She retorted.

“Father says our futures depend upon the moment where preparation meets opportunity. Therefore, no, I do not believe dawn will be a painless honour, yet I do believe it is in my hands to decide whether that is the future I should move toward.”

She mulled over his words for a long time, willing herself to believe them.

In his sister’s eyes he saw the struggle of faith. There was something haunting her that he knew she had yet to voice.

“The Red Priestess said she looked into the flames and saw the end of a curse. That will be the dawn I would bring.” She confessed when her gaze finally met his.

Her voice was barely above a whisper and somehow the air around them seemed to darken and cool. Arthur could not deny the way the winds of the Summer Sea seemed to eerily whisper tales of future tragedy.

“Surely the end of a curse is a good thing.” Wylla reasoned.

“She forewarned that I should not be so eager to meet the day, for to reach it, all I will know is betrayal, calamity, blood and death. That day the curse will be lifted will be darker still, for I will rise higher than ever before and then fall so much further.” 

Arthur considered her revelation.

Arthur was never one too convinced by either of his two household faiths. He saw great flaw in both and hated the control it seemed to have over people. His mother had lost everyone she loved and she deemed it the Lord of Light’s will. Despite his father’s protests in private, Ser Waters had accepted himself as a monstrous and vile sin due to the circumstances of his birth.

It made his blood boil to no end to watch his sister’s suffering at the hands of enslaving prophesies.

“What did you see when you looked into the nightfire?” Wylla wondered.

“I stared for so very long, until the heat bought water to my eyes. I thought I saw nothing but then I glimpsed yellow eyes, or maybe red ones; and bloody scales, maybe that of dragons or vipers, I could not see anything clearly, it was if all the stars had gone out.” 

A silence fell between them all as the heavy vision settled.

“Well then, perhaps we should instead fashion our own fates, all the gods be damned.” He said blasphemously to the shock of both girls.

“I think it is likely a sin in all faiths to curse the gods.” Wylla responded.

“Why should I worry if they promise to hex me and mine anyways?” He countered.

Wylla shifted uncomfortably but said no more.

Ashara was surprised for only a moment before the wheels behind her eyes began turning thoughtfully.

“Your Lady mother says a man is no man at all without faith, for without it what purpose can he have?”

Wylla was perplexed but did not outright shun Arthur’s thoughts.

“My purpose would be the same always. The Sword of The Morning must serve and protect house Dayne to his dying breath.”

He would protect them all. Yet, to Arthur, house Dayne first and foremost meant his beloved sister. For as long as Arthur had conscious thought, he had known he was to be his sister’s keeper, not because any god meant for it to be but because he wanted to be.

“So, are we to deny The Seven _and_ R’hllor?” Ashara asked.

Ashara squeezed their joined hands imploring him to guide her from this darkness.

“We are to deny false fates. I vow on this day to be the master of my own fate and not a pawn to any god.”

A genuine dimpled smile spread across her delicate features.

“Then what path would you have me walk down brother?”

He caressed her cheek gently. Staring at her, at times it was frightening how much she looked like their Lady mother.

“It doesn’t matter for me, as long as I get to walk down it with you. Except, I do hope you choose one filled with love and joy.”

“As would I. You are my greatest friend and I would have you only ever happy, milady.” Wylla added into the quiet. 

“Then perhaps I would like to be the most famous performer who ever lived. I’d like to travel throughout Westeros and the Free Cities. I could go to King’s Landing and perform for the good King Aerys and Queen Rhaella, then across to Sunspear to play for the Princes and Princesses; and across the Narrow Sea to enchant Great Khal’s and their Khaleesi; I might even go up to the winterlands and dance for Lords and Ladies.” She dreamed with great hope in her eyes.

He smiled at her words, happy to have diverted her thoughts to something considerably more suited to a girl as sweet as she.

“In that case, my dear sister, the first step is coming out of your shell and dancing in front of people who are not only us and mother…” He responded in jest.

Ashara’s amethyst eyes widened at the thought but the mischievous grin on her face told him she might just be ready to at least consider it.

“… although, it would not displease me to see you spin once more.” He said picking up the discarded drum to begin a lively beat for his sister.

When Ashara heard Arthur’s rhythm it was like liquid fire being injected right into her blood stream. She embraced the music and in turn the music took control. Her movements flowed with a dazzling grace that never failed to take his breath away. For her, to dance was to become an opening flower or a bird aloft and he watched as she soared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts about the chapter! x


	3. Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are love and duty one in the same?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

**Duty**

Arthur and Aethan woke up Ashara before the dawn on the day of her tenth name day, to celebrate as they had done every year since her birth.

As her eyes adjusted to the candlelight her two brothers stood at the foot of her bed with blood orange treats in hand.

She began to squeal in excitement before Aethan signalled her to be quiet as not to wake a sleeping Wylla.

“Come sister, there is something else I have to show you.” Arthur whispered.

She eyed him wearily. His eyes, more indigo than blue now, were twinkling with trouble and Ashara was weak but to follow.

“Come.” He repeated with a growing wicked grin.

She never required much twisting of her arm, equally as mischievous as Arthur, many might even say he taught her all she knew. At age four she learnt the secret passages of the castle towers; at five he showed her where to steal all the blood orange treats she could ever want; and at age seven he taught her how to climb into Dawn’s room, evading the guards, so he might have company admiring the great sword.

Today, even Aethan joined in on their trouble, accompanying them up the secret tunnels into Dawn’s hall in Palestone Sword Tower.

Dawn’s hall was a grand tower top hall with high windows which were always kept open so at night the glistening of the milky sword would even be seen across the Dornish mainland.

Dawn was the only object in the room, placed directly in the middle and wedged into a menacing rock, which was said to be where the fallen star struck after its descent. They could sneak in relatively undisturbed because it was rarely used, with only a servant coming to clean occasionally and the guards standing outside the hall.

Each time they came to play, Arthur would attempt to detach the sword from its position until his face was red with effort. He might spend hours pulling and pushing the handle to no avail. Ashara would simply watch with curiosity, wondering just when the sword would shift for her brother. She never doubted that one day it would move because the one thing she was certain about, was that Dawn was Arthur’s future.

Today however, they were not here for Arthur but for her. At first Aethan present her with his gift; a new dress which was the exact shade of her eyes.

“A new dress for a new year.” He said handing it to her with that smile he reserved only for her.

She spun the material around in her hand looking at all the detail in every stitch, from the stars littered across the shoulders to House Dayne’s coat of arms, a blazing star surmounted by a white sword on a lilac field, prettily stitched across the chest.

“Oh Aethan, I adore it, thank you.”

Next came Arthur’s gift; a brand-new harp almost the height of Aethan.

“You can’t very well dance without music now, can you. The Seven Kingdoms eagerly awaits the debut of the amazing Lady Ashara.” He said as she rushed over to the instrument.

Its strings were a pale purple with amethyst gems embedded across the rim. She already loved the instrument more than anything else; and loved her brother even more for his consideration.

She hugged them both tightly excitement filling her bones.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She chanted in their arms.

“But Arthur how did you get mother to agree to this?” She wondered looking at the extravagant harp.

“I didn’t. Father had it shipped from Lys when I told him what I wished to present you for your nameday.”

Just as she went to speak, muffled voices arguing drifted from the other side of the thick wooden doors.

Aethan pulled them back into the secret passage door so that they might hear what the ruckus beyond was and escape before being caught by their mother who commonly frequented this tower.

Expecting their mother chastising the guard for falling asleep on duty, instead they were confronted with a heated discussion between their Lady mother and Ser Waters. 

“I said they are not going.” Ser Waters spoke in a biting tone.

“What harm would it do to attend the King’s celebrations? It would be treason not to attend.”

They had heard the week prior of the upcoming celebrations for the first nameday of the King’s newest son, Prince Daeron Targaryen.

Ashara prayed to all the gods that she might go, for whilst her brothers had both left Starfall, she had never seen anything aside from her sunny island. Across the Realm people told tales of the splendid court the King held. She thought that perhaps this would be her opportunity to finally present one of her dances at court.

For a while, a growing urge to leave Starfall had begun to settle in, to see all these places which she spoke of going on her performance tour.

“I am sure the King and all the other noble houses will not notice House Dayne’s absence.” He said lowly.

“Which is exactly why we shall attend, to present our children and not have these great houses forget us again.”

It was no secret that Lady Dayne believed that the great houses of Westeros looked down upon Starfall. Her ambitions for her children was all she spoke about. Aethan would be a powerful Lord she would say, Arthur would be the greatest knight of the Seven Kingdoms, and Ashara would have a hundred men fall at her feet and only the worthiest would her mother accept.

“So, this is about your ambition after all. You wish to use our children as pawns in this deluded ideology of ‘fallen and reborn’.”

“House Dayne’s words are our foundation, as every other house. My children will bring the dawn. It is our duty to provide our children with the best possible opportunities available to them.” Lady Dayne’s voice said pleadingly.

“And what do you know of these lions and dragons and sea monsters that they might be fit for our children?”

“I know that they are royalty.” Lady Dayne’s words came immediately.

House Dayne had once been royalty, descended from the Kings of Torrentine; something that has never been forgotten by anyone in Starfall. The former king’s crowns hung at the castle gate so that those who enter might remember that the Dayne’s blood are of kings.

“And with the birth of another son, perhaps this might be the time to present Ashara as a possible match.”

A long silence fell between the pair.

At the mention of her name, Ashara listened eagerly. She let the idea of a betrothal to the Prince Rhaegar settle and in the few seconds of quiet, she imagined herself a Dornish Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Strangely, she couldn’t deny the uneasy feeling which settled in her stomach and she reached for her brother’s hands.

“Queen Rhaella may yet still bare a daughter.” Ser Waters voice eventually came.

“Why does this vex you so much, you have never taken any interest in Ashara.” Her mother spat venomously.

“I love all my children.” His response came immediately and Ashara couldn’t help but notice his warning tone.

Ashara had never felt much love from her father and his words puzzled her immensely. Love was her brothers sharing, playing and laughing with her. Love was her mother’s smile, kind words and tight hugs. Love was not Ser Waters distance. 

“Then you, more than most should be happy that your daughter might be considered as a royal match.”

Ser Waters released a gruff humourless laugh at Lady Dayne’s words.

“Why? Because I am a bastard and I could never hope to reach so high?”

A sharp sigh fell from Lady Dayne’s lips.

“I simply meant –”

“I should be pleased that the stain of my existence might be erased by my daughters sacrifice.” He interjected.

It was curious that her father would use such a word. Ashara’s Lady mother had taught her that it was her duty to marry well, how could becoming a Queen be anything close to sacrifice.

“My Lady Dayne, I know of the places you wish to send your children better than most, I know the people with which you wish them to dine. Being highborn does not absolve people from being monstrous just as my stained birth does not make me a monster.”

Ser Waters had grown up between Driftmark and King’s Landing. He had even squired for Lord Tyrell in the Reach and Ashara heard him tell her brothers many a time that he had no love for these places.

“Your father –” her mother said with frustration clear in her voice. 

“Boremund Velaryon has no say over who my children will marry nor where they will go!” Ser Waters’ surprisingly booming voice yelled back.

It was the first time Ashara had ever heard her father raise his voice and it unnerved her. She even felt Arthur flinch beside her. The silence on the other side of the door suggested that her Lady mother was just as surprised.

“I forbid it!”

When his voice raised again, she was sure the castle walls shook with strength and rage of Ser Waters voice.

“It is not your wife who makes this decision.”

It was not the first time Ashara or Arthur had heard these chilling words come from the Lady of Starfall.

Usually, this would be the end of the discussion, whether in court or in private, their Lady mother would utter the words and the Silent Knight would retreat back into his quietness and the topic would never be heard again.

Yet, this time, Ser Waters spoke again, an almost begging tone in his voice.

“I have been nothing but dutiful to you as my liege and wife. I have never encroached upon your dominion as Lady of Starfall. Your House and name will live on without the burden of my bastard name within it. Marrying strengthened our fathers political affiliations and we both did our duty, as was expected of us. However, dear wife, we both forfeited love for duty, can you say you might wish this for your sons or young Ashara?”

The question was met with silence.

When Ashara once asked her old Septa about love she told her that the love of a husband was the most important thing in the world beneath the love of the Seven. She explained that all the things she taught her was so that one day she might make the most dutiful wife to a great lord. Lady Dayne had told her that the only true love was that of a mother and her children.

The young Dayne’s never heard Lady Dayne’s answer to Ser Waters.

Throughout the celebrations of her nameday this conversation played about her mind. She was another year closer to being a maiden and being burdened by the expectations of love and duty. She always thought love and duty were one in the same within marriage, but her fathers pleas had her question whether she would have to choose one over the other.

Later that night, as Aethan taught her and Arthur the constellations of the night sky, Ashara would ask him what Ser Waters meant.

“Do mother and Ser Waters love or hate each other?”

His eyes darkened with sadness as he looked back down at her. He never lied to her, but she could see in this moment he considered it.

“I think it is likely both.”

She pondered this quietly and thought to the question Ser Waters had posed to her Lady mother. Would she want to be married to someone she couldn’t decide whether she loved or hated? The uneasy feeling in her chest told her she would never want to be in her mother or father’s position.

“Are love and duty in marriage one in the same, as the songs say, or is it as Ser Waters said?”

Aethan was five and ten, essentially a man grown, she figured he would know enough to explain it to her. Their Lady mother had only recently begun suggesting possible brides for him.

“It is both.” He answered again, only confusing her more.

“I think sometimes marriage can be a duty which lacks the type of love many long for –”

“And what kind of love is that?” Ashara interjected eagerly.

“The love they sing about in the songs and write about in your books.” Arthur said.

“Yes, I think secretly all people aspire for that all-encompassing, passionate, willing to die for kind-of-love. The love that men would go to war for and raise all seven hells for, the love which women would leave and disobey their families for. Yet, duty often does not permit that. Whilst love can still grow and become something of mutual respect and support in other situations, it lacklustre.”

Aethan was much like their father and she knew he would do as duty bid, as their Lady mother bid, as he had done his entire life. There was a sadness in his eyes that reminded him of their father and she began to feel sorry for him. With this, she finally understood what her father had been fighting for.

“Father wishes us the love of the songs and storybooks. The freedom to choose and not be a slave to duty.”

Her words surprised them both. Arthur seemed less interested as he often was when it came to love and marriage, but Aethan smiled solemnly at her words.

“I think father sees that duty will always be there regardless, so he wishes _you_ to have a freedom he never had.” Aethan finished.

As she traced out the Sword of the Morning constellation above her home, she vowed to herself that she would never forfeit love for duty; and for the first time she found herself of a mind with her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What direction do you think Ashara will head in - duty or love?


	4. Driftmark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara finally ventures out of Starfall for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

**Driftmark**

Had Ashara known that leaving Starfall would result in the separation of her brother, she would never have been so excited to leave. She would not have picked out her loveliest robes or her shiniest broaches; and she certainly wouldn’t have given her most radiant smiles to the peculiar Velaryon’s who had fawned over her in Driftmark.

House Dayne set off in attendance for the new Prince Daeron Targaryen’s celebrations in King’s Landing despite Ser Waters protests. However, before they sailed for King’s Landing, the Dayne’s first arrived to the island of Driftmark. Driftmark being Ser Waters family home, still ruled by his Lord father Boremund Velaryon.

The journey was too long and too short simultaneously. Ashara remained above deck as long as her Lady mother allowed; drinking in the sights of the world beyond home; although, much of the landscape remained the same boring blue which could be seen for miles. Pulling into the stony shores, Ashara’s immediate thoughts were of excitement. To see how vastly different this island and castle was to Starfall. Where Starfall was bright, Driftmark had a greyness to it; even in the summer light. Where Starfall’s towers were endless, Driftmark’s were stout and surrounded by damp greenery that did not at all look inviting.

If the castle had been uninviting, the people in it had been less so. Ashara watched her terrifying knight father be reduced to a shamed bastard; as his abrasive uncles delighted in his torment. The fat Lord Velaryon leered at her Lady mother as if an unwanted stain on his clothing. Worse still was the attention these people gave Ashara, particularly the lord’s youngest brother Ser Lycian whose beady blue eyes seemed to follow her everywhere she went. It was in Driftmark Ashara learned that to be Dornish was only to be praised within Dorne. 

Despite all, only Arthur, the golden boy, shone on the dreary island. Ever since Ashara could remember people were always charmed by his sparkling blue eyes, dazzling smile and charismatic ways. That he was truly talented only served as a stronger magnet to him. The Velaryon’s were positively enchanted by his skill with the sword and clung to his promise of greatness.

Within the first three days of their stay, ravens come from King’s Landing declaring the death of the youngest Targaryen prince. Ashara could not deny the relief she felt that they would not have to travel to King’s Landing. Yet, her joy was short-lived because on the fourth day, by the bequest of Lord Bormund, Ser Waters announced that Arthur would remain and squire for Ser Lycian Velaryon.

She hated Driftmark, the place which seemed only to take and give nothing back.

At first, when the memory of her brother and their jokes were still fresh, the letters were enough to keep the ache in her heart at bay. His letters informed her of the vigorous training he was undergoing; they told tales of blood, sweat and tears. She was proud of him but most of all she simply missed him.

As summer turned to winter and its greyness took Starfall, it seemed her mother’s melancholy would claim her too. The darkest depression struck her mother the moment they returned from Driftmark. It was a cloud so grey that Ashara could not blow it away with song and dance. Even when she crawled in beside her mother, she could not whisper back the light to desolate violet eyes. The Purple Lady came to embody a grey lady completely; becoming a ghost of the warm, jovial and attentive mother she once was.

Ashara came to realise Arthur was the light of dawn. Since he had been gone, it left the entire castle feeling colourless and lifeless in the gloomy season.

She felt herself fall into a strange sadness and found it harder to leave her bed in the mornings, play with her friends, attend her lessons; and as of late to even create a rhythm or twirl in dance. Without Arthur’s mischievous adventures even the stars seemed dim, never holding the same magnificent light as when her brother would teach her.

In his absence she grew to resent Ser Waters, she placed blame on him for Arthur’s absence. If only he had been stronger, he could have denied his father. If he hadn’t been a bastard, he could even have denied Lady Dayne in the first place; she thought time and again.

Although, a part of her held her lady mother responsible too. If she listened to her husband in the first place, Arthur would still be home, she would still be happy and Ashara would not be lonely.

Isolation would claim her for its own without her brother’s protection.


	5. The Sun and Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara adjusts to life without her brother and in the process discovers another important man in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

**The Sun and Moon**

Too many moons to count passed without Arthur. Ashara stood on the shore each day as if she thought her brother would return by boat, or in the sea. He of course never did. It was ridiculous that she would hope so much day after day and then be confronted with the same painful disappointment.

Fed up with the suffocating feeling, one afternoon Ashara decided _she_ would go to him. She believed herself old enough, she would be ten and one soon enough; and could feed and dress herself, so she figured she could voyage across the sea herself.

This day, she prepared a bag and made way to the docks.

The men of the harbour looked at her strangely but addressed her still.

“Milady Ashara, what brings you to the docks today?” Captain Dalt asked suspiciously.

She straightened her back in order to sell some kind of authority.

“I require a ship, we set sail for Driftmark, Captain.”

He eyed her wearily.

“We haven’t heard word from Lord Dayne or Ser Waters.”

Her frustration began to build fearing her plan might fall through.

“It is not for them. _I_ need the ship.”

Understanding seemed to fall across his features as pity glowed in his eyes.

“I am going to be with Arthur.”

She hated how her voice shook.

“Milady, I cannot do that.”

“Yes, you can, and you will! I command it!”

An unfamiliar anger overtook her and she found herself shouting embarrassingly as the floodgate of tears broke.

“Prepare the ship, I am going to be with my brother! I hate it here in this terrible lonely place – ”

Her tirade was interrupted by Ser Waters appearance.

“Lady Ashara.” He called in his usual low whisper.

She refused to acknowledge him still determined on her plan.

“I won’t stay here without him. Aethan is always too busy for me and mother never leaves her chambers, I won’t do it!” She yelled frustrated.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and expected to be carried away with her protests ignored and left for Lord Aethan to deal with.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore.” She admitted.

“Lady Ashara.”

Although he said it more sternly than usual, when she looked up at him, expecting to find anger she found something softer in his Arthur-blue eyes.

He gave her a few moments to calm herself before he spoke again. 

“Your brother is set to return soon enough, it will do you nor him any good if you are missing when he reaches home.” He said.

She wanted to curse her father for the terrible loneliness his actions had caused. She very nearly defied him to leave anyway.

If only she was the Lady of the house, she could command the knight into silence as her mother did. Then again, if she was Lady of the house, she would command Arthur home to her.

“Come along, my lady.” He prompted, in his no argument tone, and Ashara relented.

She followed along with her head hung low in a failed mission.

She wandered about behind Ser Waters expecting to trail him back along the long bridge which connected mainland Dorne to the castle and into her septa’s custody. Instead, she found him taking her on another route.

They walked along the shoreline and into the garden maze, over rocky cliffs and to a concealed sanctuary which bought the entirety of Starfall castle, built upon the fallen meteorite, into view.

It was positively stunning to see the unique way which the castle sat upon the giant rock. To see how at that angle the impossibly tall towers seemed tall enough to poke into the sky, yet tiny against the enormous blue of the waters enveloping it.

The silent knight studied her for a long time; never speaking simply watching her take it in.

Eventually he took a seat on the ground and she followed suit. It was strange how he managed to communicate without ever opening his lips, but she found in the stillness of this sanctuary, with home gazing back at her, that it did not frustrate her so much.

“Why did you let Arthur stay behind?”

“He must become a man as strong as Dawn.”

She pondered his words; not understanding what was missing in Starfall that he could not become a man of strength.

“Starfall gave us the likes of Ser Davos Dayne; a knight fit for a Princess,” she answered annoyed.

Something like a smile pulled at his eyes as he looked below to their castle home.

“Each man must voyage away from the comforts of home to find his strength. To be strong he must test himself away from everything to see if he can survive, or he will be no use to any of us, including himself.”

Arthur was already strong in her eyes, but the knight’s words did rouse new perspective of his absence.

“Arthur must be the strength of House Dayne.” 

_The Sword of the Morning must be the defender of House Dayne._ She concluded easily; having heard him drill those words into both his sons since birth.

Their usual silence settled between them, and for the first time in so long, Ashara found peace.

As the sun set, she began to wonder about her father and his strange position in her life. She called him Ser Waters and not father, unlike other children. Yet, his actions more recently would show he understood and misunderstood his daughter all at the same time.

She finally plucked up the courage, to ask him something she wondered about for as long as she had ability to wonder.

“Ser Waters, why do you not talk?”

If he was surprised by the question it did not show.

“Because my voice was taken from me.” He answered in his normal soft hush.

She knew his tongue was cut, but she had heard his voice; loud and clear that day he pleaded with his wife.

“Why do you not talk to _me_?” She clarified.

He looked at her a long while, a sad smile pulling at his eyes, although his lips remained in their usual frown.

“In my experience, fathers cause more pain with their words than any other…”

It seemed strange to her because his silence caused just as much pain as any words he could say.

“…there is a certain kind of ruin only a father can create, and I do not wish to leave you broken. I thought your life might be better if you never loved me at all.”

For someone so distant it was baffling that he would divulge so much and so easily now.

“Then why do you speak now?”

His eyes misted and they reminded her of Arthur’s light eyes, but there was something distinctly haunting about Ser Waters blue hue that her brother did not have. 

“I see your mother’s sadness in you, and worse still, I see my own loneliness. I vowed when you were but a babe in your mother’s arms that I would not allow you to suffer as I had and in this I believed I could be present and absent all at the same time.”

Despite all she knew of Ser Waters and all she’d forced herself to feel, she yearned desperately for his love but even more so for him to allow her to love him.

“I should like to hear your voice, as my brothers have.” She settled with.

“And I would like to hear yours as well, never be silenced, for the world is lonely without a voice.”

After the day gave in to the night and the stars came out, Ser Waters stood, and she followed.

The following morning, at sunrise, a soft knock banged against her chamber door, and when she opened it, Ser Waters stood before her.

“I wondered if you might join me for a walk this morning, my lady?” he asked with something close to a smile on his lips.

She hesitated, not yet used to the shift in their relationship.

“You do not want to miss the dawn today, Ashara.”

He began to walk a few steps and when she didn’t follow, he stopped and peered round.

“Come.” He said softly, in a way that reminded her so much of Arthur it forced her feet into action.

He offered his arm and apprehensively she took it.

“If you think your brothers the masterminds behind the discovery of the hidden passages of this castle then let me show you all I taught them.” He spoke again with amusement in his voice.

He walked slowly and led her on a journey around the towers and into a tunnel she had never ventured before.

“What is so special about today’s dawn?” She asked eventually.

He smiled, the first true one she could ever say she had seen.

The tunnel broke out onto the beach below the castle and when she saw the sunrise her jaw dropped.

Where the sun began rising above the horizon, in its reddish tone it split into two pieces appearing as red bull horns rising into the sky.

“Today the sun meets the moon.” He explained.

It was tranquil that early, with the world not yet awake. They continued to stroll along the shore as she marvelled at the sight.

As they walked Ser Waters began to tell her a tale.

“Long before Aegon the conqueror, and even the First Men set their eyes to Westeros, there was a goddess of fire that was named Sun. In her duty, she was tied to the skies to keep the world afloat. A goddess so fierce and beautiful had many admirers but none more than a mortal man; his name was Moon...”

They sat in perfect view of the sun and moon, and Ashara hung onto her fathers every word. 

“…In a tale as old as time, Sun fell in love with Moon. A man shrouded in darkness. Yet, he was the man she loved, and they say you cannot help who you love. Sun rewarded that love by sacrificing half of her skies, but because of his darkness, he could not light up the skies in the same way as Sun…”

Arthur had once told her that it was the moon’s sacred task to collect all the poor souls who died, and ferry them to the worlds beyond, and that the stars were the souls of the fallen.

“…And yet, they rule the skies together. Some say, he dies every dawn to let his true love shine, and Sun kisses him to slumber those few fleeting moments at first light when the Sun and moon coexist...”

It was strange for Ashara to realise how much she was like her father. He captivated her with the story of the lovers who rarely met. She heard a yearning in his own voice she did not understand.

“…Even now, they both wait patiently, for seasons and seasons, for the rare day when they might exist and love together.”

It was a tragic story and still Ashara wished that she might one day find someone to sacrifice for her like Sun and Moon.

“What happens if Moon convinces Sun to stay?” She asked.

Her father turned to her then and his smile faltered.

“The world… wrecked, for the moon’s darkness will kill the sun. Lovers will carve out their own hearts and the song of the end of days will begin…”

He gauged her reaction before he continued, the story turning darker than she had anticipated.

“…Ushering in the winter of all winters and an everlasting dark and cold night. All the warriors and the gods will bear arms against the creatures of the darkness unleashed against the lands for the lovers who never could.”

“And who will win father?”

The word fell out so easily that she desperately wished she could have caught it and stuffed it back inside.

The silent knight hadn’t missed her slip and she swore she saw his eyes mist in the aftermath.

She couldn’t tell if he was angry or upset but something in his eyes told her there was unhappiness.

Still, he continued.

“Those who worship the sun will be the first to engage. The battle will be bloody, the rivers will run red and infernos will ravish the world from the great grass plains of Vaes Dothrak to the land of always winter; the stars will burn out and the earth will fall into the sea. Though in the end, both the gods and men will die and like in the beginning, Sun will sacrifice for love, and only the moon will remain, a creature of darkness, alone waiting for the day his Sun might return.”

His voice was barely above a whisper and yet the tale set her heart into a fast rhythm. Something sickening swirled in the pit of her stomach. She loved tragic romance stories most, and this was the saddest one of all.

Caught up in the story, Ashara did not even notice her father placing one of his rings into her hand.

She examined the blue and silver jewels encrusted across the gold band; she couldn’t help but observe how the pattern made it resemble the nights sky.

“Sometimes, fleeting moments are all there is. So, if you ever find someone that lights up your world like the sun, never let go and do right by them.”

He closed her hand around the ring.

He had never outright given her anything before and it was overwhelming that the man she could scarcely look at days ago was quickly becoming so very precious to her.

“I will father,” she promised.

“It is from Lys; and the only thing my mother left for me.”

In the days which followed, their walks continued in a similar manner. At dawn, her father would knock, and he would walk, and she would follow. Sometimes they talked, and he told her great stories and other times they enjoyed the silence together.

Although she still missed Arthur, she found that her loneliness began to subside. With each passing day her love grew for Ser Waters in a way she had desperately craved for as long as she knew. 


	6. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur returns to his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur

**Home**

Coming home was hard. It had been a long and arduous near two years since Arthur saw the great towers of Starfall.

Sweat broke out in pinpricks along the backs of his knees, and his legs wouldn’t stop bouncing, as if the vibrations of the moving ship were shaking him. He was afraid of the man returning. The golden boy of Starfall had long been buried. At Driftmark his confidence was hammered out of him and his once pure heart corrupted by experience.

Squiring for Ser Lycian Velaryon had been nothing but test after test. His great-uncle was both sweet and sour; helping him one day and punishing him for it the next. Still, he was indebted because the stormy-eyed knight shaped him in ways his father could not.

As the Velaryon ship drew closer, the mere sight of his boyhood home was a salve to a troubled and wearied mind. All thoughts of past pain and future anxiety fell away. The skies shone like a welcoming duvet of violet and in the stars lay the sleeping souls of his great ancestors. He could hear them calling him home in their sweet slumber, back to the rock where he belonged, back to the cradle of his people where the songs of true knights were still sung.

When Arthur got off the ship, he was grinning, the first he could remember in a long time. The island was prepared extensively for the Tournament which would make or break his life. There were decorations and viewing decks from the docks across the long castle bridge to the gates in the distance.

His foreign water-soaked boots trod familiar roads and the path rose to greet his feet as he veered up to the grand Torrentine bridge back to his home. Despite his near two years away, he still remembered everything about the place; the purple moonblooms planted from dock to castle gate; the soft tinkling of the wind chimes that reminded him of stargazing by the cliffs.

Undeterred by the late hour, massive crowds of common folk were gathered in welcome, pushing and shoving for just a look, their fingers reaching for him. By the sheer number of them, Arthur could tell he was the last Dayne competitor to arrive.

He waved back to the crowds, as if _they_ were being graced with the highest honour, as if the title of Sword of the Morning was already his.

 _‘They love me_ ,’ he thought.

He could see it in their faces; love and admiration and adoration, waves after waves of it. All for him. For their son of Dorne.

A sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, he felt like an imposter, unworthy of such worship.

When they finally reached the open castle courtyard, the self-loathing set aside, and the excitement set in. He was finally home with those who truly loved and cared for him. Immediately, his eyes found his family. Mother, father, brother and _no_ Ashara. He was desperate to be reunited with all of his family, but none more than his sister.

From around the corner came night-dark hair, a haze of purple, held in the grip of a girl he instantly recognised as Wylla. Ashara was grinning from ear to ear and waving Starfall’s flag. At first recognition Ashara broke into a run, proper courtesies be damned. There was joy in her every step and Arthur found his own feet hurriedly moving to scoop her into a bear-hug. He embraced her tightly and forced his tears away, lest his mentor punish him for showing weakness later.

“Little sister.” He said finally putting her down.

Although, looking at her she had changed so much she could hardly be described as little. He realized like a kick to his gut that Ashara was almost two and ten now. The narrowness of her face accentuated the oval of her violet eyes, her pale russet skin a sharp contrast to her dark locks. She was taller still, and he could see the small girl who had once run after him tirelessly would soon have the grace of a fine young maiden. Soon her childhood would be over, and it hurt beyond belief that he had missed even a bit of it.

“You’re home.” She said with the mischievous dimpled smile she reserved only for him.

“I am home.” He whispered in near disbelief.

Next Aethan stepped forward, a wide smile on his lips, and grabbed him by the back of his head bringing their forehead and nose together.

“Brother.”

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

It finally settled that he was in the God's favoured kingdom, where he belonged, and would never leave again.

After greeting his mother and father, he introduced his party consisting of Ser Lycian and his uncle Lucerys Velaryon.

“Ser Lycian, thank you for all you have done for our Arthur; for preparing him and returning him home to us.” His lady mother spoke.

“Lady Dayne, the pleasure is all mine. We came to see Arthur ascend to his position. I have transformed him into a knight his First Men ancestors can be proud of.” He responded in his naturally booming voice which seemed to bounce across the thick courtyard walls.

Lady Dayne flashed him her most radiant smile, even though he refused to kiss her hand as was custom, the Purple Lady, ever the diplomat.

“So, bastard, how are you?” Ser Lycian asked stepping towards his father, Ser Waters.

During his time at Driftmark he was educated on many secrets about his father and their family. He learnt about the fierce rivalry between Ser Waters and Ser Lycian; both were of a similar age; and both had fought for the attention of Lord Boremund Velaryon.

Ser Lycian’s hand settled on his shoulder in something akin to affection, but Arthur noticed Ser Waters discomfort.

“I am well, Ser Velaryon.” He croaked out.

“Still as quiet as the day you lost your tongue I see.”

Rumours of the bastard of Driftmark’s mutilation told of deceitful stories in which Ser Lycian had been responsible.

The taunting of Ser Lycian might once have angered Arthur but after what he endured, he would not feel sorry for his bastard father. He had left him in Driftmark, knowing what his kin were; had spun him tales of making him a man, and abandoned him to suffer. There would be no pity for him. 

“Speak up bastard knight, you are not a boy anymore!” Lycian poked at his father again.

Aethan looked away shamefully and Arthur wandered too if he had suffered the same during his time as a page in Driftmark.

“My Lord, I said I am well, I hope the journey was easy, and I am glad my son is home again.” He answered with a fraction more projection in his voice.

“What?” Lycian called out again.

“Enough uncle, let us be civilised guests in my brother’s home.” Lucerys spoke, the future lord spoke up for his brother.

Quickly they were ushered towards Dawn’s room, for the presenting ceremony, where the competitors would be nominated. A knight would offer up their own sword for a Dayne they held faith in to win; and on that knight’s honour would the competitor compete. The Starborn tournament was like no other in the land; only closest to the fighting pits of the slave cities.

Arthur had grown up reading stories about each sword of the morning and their wins. By age eight he could recite each entry in the book of knights. He feared the more brutal tales of how Ser Varro Dayne, named Dawnstar, had slain all his kin in the final duel for Dawn. Of them all, his favourite, Ser Ulrick Dayne’s win came at the hands of his twin sister who kept his spirits strong as he hungered for five days until the last of his competitors ceded.

When they came to Dawn’s room; the great hall was filled with more people than Arthur had ever seen in there. Dawn sat in the middle as always, its milky coloured glint shining in the starlight as if it were fashioned from the brilliant rays themselves. The broad silvery metal was sectioned off, as was the rock it rested upon; and Arthur knew the next time he would touch it, would be in his victory. In all the landscape it was the thing that drew the eye, a symbol of the kind of bravery that enabled others to find their own courage, to be more than they thought themselves able to be and a promise of the duty of protection.

Presented first came his mother’s uncle, Ser Alfrid, a knight of thirty, with won battles already under his belt. Next came Dyanna’s eldest brother, Vorian Dayne of High Hermitage, a man of ten and six, desperate to best his brothers of Starfall. Before Arthur, came another cousin, Joff Sand, competing and nominated by his father Ser Alfrid.

Lastly, Arthur. When it came time for his nomination, both his father and mentor stood. For as long as Arthur could remember it had been Ser Waters faith in him that propelled him towards Dawn, yet Arthur had sold himself to the devil; and it would be Ser Lycian’s sword he would take.

A part of him had sought to spite his father. The welts of his beatings were still fresh on his skin and the memories of the hell Ser Waters had willingly sent him were not a distant in Arthur’s mind. Fresher still were the welts on his skin of his regular violent beatings and his terrorizing words. 

_“To be the Sword of the Morning is to be immortalised as a god. You will never be a god. You will never be anything. The bastard knight made you weak, I’ve tried to trample the weakness out of you. Remember, boy, it is only by my will whether you win or lose this glory.”_

The words came after many moons of failing and falling. Starfall had made him think he was truly a man but Driftmark revealed to him, he was only an extension of the stain of his father, weak. Thus, shamefully, he agreed to let Ser Lycian nominate him and do whatever else necessary to win.

Despite the look of utter disappointment in his father’s eyes, he sat as Ser Lycian declared for Arthur.

“Only one man will claim victory, and earn the title, the sword of the morning, and by the gods, that man will be Arthur Dayne. Do you not see it in his eyes, the boy born for blood and glory, the man that will bring the Dawn.” 

He spoke words of courage to the people of Arthur’s home and it made his stomach knot.

This was all he had ever wanted, yet deep down, he knew he was not worthy, and still he yearned for it. So, when it came time, he recited the Starborn pledge for Dawn as if he was deserving of the honour, as if he had the strength to do it himself.

**_‘_ ** _I swear to be burned, beaten or die by the sword in pursuit of the honour and glory of Sword of the Morning.’_

Taking a deep breath, Arthur yelled out words he had practice over a hundred times while banging on his chest.

One by one, each Dayne fell into a battle stance, holding their borrowed swords across their chest, stomping their feet, as they began the Dornish ceremonial war dance.

_“I live! I die! I am Fallen and Reborn! I am the one who grabs the sun! And by my hand I’ll bring the Dawn!’_

Arthur hollered again, the same words his fellow competitors had, but by the fifth word they all joined in the war-cry for Dawn and soon they were all roaring out the chant and moving in union in the same motions.

_“I live! I die! I am Fallen and Reborn! I am the one who grabs the sun! And by my hand I’ll bring the Dawn!’_

They ended in the final stance, puffed out cheeks blowing air, tongues out tauntingly, flared nostrils; and gave their final bellow. The great hall was captivated into silence. Although it had only been the competing Dayne’s to stamp and combat, Arthur knew it was heard and felt by all in Dorne. They were on the precipice of a new age of House Dayne; and a worthy knight would bring the Dawn this generation. Despite his uncles many words of scorn, Arthur still hoped somehow it could be him.


	7. A Royal Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sun and stars meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

** A Royal Meeting **

The news of Princess Furiosa and her children’s impending visit had caused an uproar in Starfall. House Nymeros Martell was truly loved in Dorne and by none more than the Dayne’s and inhabitants of Starfall. The Dayne’s were the most fiercely loyal house to their overlord; not only due to familial ties going back to Nymeria and Ser Davos Dayne but more recently the Princess and Lady Alyssa were cousins whose mothers had been sisters. 

Ashara had heard much about the Princess and her family. Lady Alyssa had spoken of how she spent time in the Water Gardens of Sunspear as a girl, although being much younger than her cousin, she had gotten to well know the heir, Prince Doran.

Doran was said to be pensive and clever, Oberyn was fierce and unruly, but there was little known about Princess Elia, the only daughter to Princess Furiosa.

Their visit would be the first the Princess Elia ever ventured out of Sunspear, the capital of Dorne. Across the kingdoms they had heard the rumours of her premature birth and subsequent sickly constitution. Elia Martell was not strong, at least not in body. She was not her mother’s daughter nor was she Princess Nymeria come again. 

They breached the outer walls of Starfall at the peak of night, but regardless of the late hour, the entire city seemed to be awake as the crowds were unrestrained in their cheers for their princess and her entourage. At the helm, on a huge black horse, rode Ser Lewyn Martell. He was easy to spot in the gold cloaks of the famous Kingsguard. A band of horses led by an older woman, perhaps close to fifty, with fury in her eyes and confidence in her ride could only mean she was the Princess Furiosa. 

Ashara stood with her brothers and her parents on the steps of the castle. She wore robes that were the lilac and silver of Starfall but her mother's gift, a sun and spear broach that was wrapped around her upper arm, reminded them whom they owed their allegiance.

Lady Alyssa had smiled secretively when she handed Ashara the broach and her brothers the red and orange garments of House Martell. All knew the Princess’ visit was more than just a journey to witness the Tournament of the Starborn. Ashara heard whispers that Ser Lewyn’s attendance would have him scout Arthur towards knighthood and eventually the Kingsguard. Louder murmurs had been spoken of the Princess travels in pursuit of potential suitors for Princess Elia and Prince Oberyn. 

Lady Alyssa’s stern scolding at the state of Ashara and Arthur, soaked and dishevelled from playing in the rock pools, was an indication that all three siblings were being offered to House Martell. She had spent hours fixing Ashara’s hair into a long braid and stitching Aethan and Arthur’s tunic so they might be perfect for their esteemed guests.

When they reached the castle steps those on horseback remained seated a while longer before the most beautiful golden charabanc draped in orange and red appeared.

Aethan, normally reserved, reached out his arm to brace her shoulders as the Princess disembarked from her horse. Ashara squeezed the hand in support. She suspected that Aethan and herself would likely be the most desirable candidates for a betrothal. Judging by Ser Waters deep frown, he had likely opposed any potential engagements, at least for her; the heir to Starfall was liable to have little choice.

Ashara was fiercely protective of both of her brothers and made up her to find out if this Princess Elia would be a good wife for her brother. Her father had warned her enough that royalty did not equate to kindness.

As the party disembarked, members of the Starfall household immediately rushed to take their steeds and belongings, and the Princess began trailing up the steps with an air of assured confidence.

Ashara found, looking at her face; wrinkled with age, but eyes hard with sun-fire, it was easy to imagine her as the same ferocious woman that defended Dorne from the slavers armada that once came to steal from her kingdom. Few in Dorne would forget the spectacle she made in negotiations. She called all her banners to shore; the might of the descendants of Nymeria. When the slavers dishonoured her by not providing her one of their chairs, and instead left her a mat, wishing to put her in her place as their subordinate. In retaliation the fiery princess ordered one of the slaver captains to get on all fours and be her throne while they deliberated. She slit his throat when negotiations were through and the slavers set their eyes elsewhere, Dorne was defended.

Lady Dayne and Lord Aethan greeted their overlord, and Princess Furiosa smiled charmingly at them, returning their warm choruses of welcome with her own barrage of gratitude for their hospitality.

The two Martell siblings were next to disembark the charabanc and greet them.

Ashara’s eyes found Prince Oberyn’s immediately, and she could not help the blush which crept across her cheeks when she found herself taken back by his handsomeness. They were of a similar age and his dark eyes sparkled with a mischief she was attracted to. She thought it might not be the end of the world if a match was made.

Nonetheless, Ashara found, the person who interested her most of the entire Dornish retinue was not the fearsome Princess, nor her handsome son, nor the likable Prince consort; Lord Oto Uller. Instead, it was the thin, dark figure who stood guarded and almost hidden by huge knights.

And when she saw her, smiling sweetly, Ashara's heart sank. Princess Elia was beautiful.

Although the rumours spoke of a delicate princess, Elia walked with the same assertive confidence as her mother.

The princess was positively enchanting. Elia was born to be a princess for certain; and had none of her mother’s sharp and aging features; she was precisely as she was named; Elia the lovely. She had a queenly beauty, with the desirable, full features of Dornish women.

She smiled sweetly as she greeted them all and Ashara noticed something frighteningly fierce in her impossibly dark eyes. Her eyes showed her soul. They were a deep pool of muddy pools with restless molten gold specks, and in them Ashara saw she was of the same flesh as Nymeria; _Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken._

“Lovely girl, are you not frozen to death in your wet robes.” She said with genuine concern in her eyes.

Lady Alyssa looked at Ashara with burning eyes to prompt the response she had made them rehearse.

“Please forgive me, Princess Elia...”

Lady Alyssa coughed not so subtly when Ashara’s pause was too long.

“...I did not mean to dishonour you, I’m afraid trouble found me… for the first in my life.” She lied unconvincingly.

The Princess laughed a soft tinkling musical sound, thoroughly amused by Ashara’s now shivering form.

“Something tells me that isn’t quite true.”

The soaked duet shared a look before nodding and gazing downward in attempts at stifling their burgeoning giggles.

“I suppose this is your punishment?” She asked looking between Arthur and Ashara.

They nodded fearful to catch their mother’s eye.

“Then you have been punished enough, don’t you think?” Princess Elia said whilst disrobing her shawl and placing it around Ashara’s shoulders.

Ashara loved her immediately, as did the rest of Starfall.

During their welcome feast Princess Elia laughed herself into the hearts of Starfall, with her quick wit and sure confidence befitting of a princess. Ashara had no doubt the Princess would be a fine match for a Dayne.


	8. Pillars of Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tournament begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur

The day had arrived. The day Arthur spent his entire life preparing for with blood, sweat and tears.

The four competing Daynes gathered, for their tests of knowledge, in Palestone hall.

The tests began in front of the council consisting of the liege lords of Starfall and High Hermitage; Princess Furiosa, House Dayne’s overlord; Ser Lewyn, a representative of King Aerys; Maester Murlin and three randomly selected members of House Dayne.

First, Joff Sand faced questions from the Dawnkeeper.

The Dawnkeeper, was a maester of sorts, dedicated to learning and documenting the history of Dawn. If House Dayne was lucky enough to see a worthy warrior within successive generations, he would oversee the transition. He would serve as an advisor and when there was none worthy, the Dawnkeeper was responsible for Dawn’s safekeeping.

Arthur found himself distracted. The glistening mighty sword, which he had grown up spending hours at a time attempting to pull out of place, to no avail; seemingly called his name and taunted him.

 _‘Ser Arthur Dayne. The worthiest knight in all the land.’_ He thought.

Had he still been the naïve boy of Starfall he might have continued to believe that. He was different now, and he wanted Dawn whether he was worthy or not. Deep down a part of him still prayed he might be, hoped he was not a coward and could attain his goal alone, despite Ser Lycian’s many disparaging words.

“Lord Arthur?”

He flinched and his bouncing leg immediately halted. He swallowed thickly and looked up, meeting the hard gaze of the man who had just called his name. Arthur knew he would never amount to anything if he failed in the very first challenge of the tournament.

“What are the four pillars of the Sword of the Morning?”

Arthur did his best to keep his facial expression schooled, he could not give away the sudden worry he felt. Yet, he was sure they could all see it in his eyes.

“The, the – pillars... are wisdom and...” He trailed off for a moment.

The question was easy enough and still his tongue felt heavy. 

“...prowess...”

When the time came to prove it, Arthur would not fail with his skill; some said he could wield a sword before he could walk. Yet, he knew it was the duty of a knight to strive for excellence in all endeavours. Ser Waters had lectured him to use his martial, intellect, and moral strength to defeat all forms of tyranny.

“...strength...”

His father had spoken of strength when he abandoned him on the rocky shores of Driftmark.

“...and morality.”

Many generations had failed this test; one not examined by specific parameters as the others; but only through a recognised act of valour during their challenges. Most wielders of Dawn would display their morality during the Witness challenge. The Witness was the morbid and brutal competition designed to test which worthy candidate embodied all the pillars of the Sword of the Morning.

In Ser Harys Dayne’s Witness, each competitor was tasked to save a ‘hostage’ placed in a danger. Ser Harys completed the task first, but before he left to claim his victory, he saw his nephew nearly burn to death as his rescuer failed to reach him. Ser Harys refused to leave. Concerned with the safety of all the hostages, he decided to rescue both himself. Ser Harys went on to ascend to Sword of the Morning in the final duel for Dawn.

Next, the Dawnkeeper questioned Ser Alfrid, the knight who had waited thirty years for his chance at Dawn.

“Ser Alfrid, why must the knight who wields Dawn have wisdom?”

“The pillars hold each other up. Without one you are not worthy. Without wisdom and only brute strength and skill, your morality can easily waver. You are no more than a savage beast without it.”

After, came Vorian Dayne of High Hermitage. Of all Arthur’s kin, it was Vorian he was most concerned. As young boys they had been close. However, as Arthur’s swordsmanship advanced, Vorian’s envy evolved too.

At High Hermitage, Vorian was believed to be the Sword of the Morning’s next vessel. He was their _golden boy_. He basked in this knowledge, let it inflate his ego and coax his arrogance. Although, the last they saw one another, he had not been much of a challenge nor truly malicious. Yet, Ser Lycian had shown Arthur just how far resentment could drive someone. Arthur could see in Vorian’s emerald eyes and always grinning features, a nurtured jealousy.

“What are the three most important virtues of chivalry?” Dawnkeeper asked Vorian.

“Courage, justice and loyalty.”

Arthur wondered if he had once spoken with the same hubris clear in Vorian’s voice.

More rounds of rigorous questioning ensued until only Arthur and Vorian battled.

“How do you define courage?”

Arthur raised his sword to answer first.

“Courage is standing before an enemy, standing with friend and kin; and obeying your king. It is choosing the just path; even if it is of great personal cost.”

Arthur could see Vorian’s growing vexation through his smile.

“What is the sword of justice?”

This time, Vorian thrust his sword in the air earliest.

“It is to always seek the honourable, unencumbered by bias or personal interest. Acts which must be tempered by humanity and mercy. In this, a knight must be able to accept wise input in determining that which is ‘right’, whilst knowing acceptance of counsel will not abrogate his role as arbiter.”

Looking at the faces of the council, Vorian had struck gold with his words.

It seemed that as one gained confidence, the other lost it; like they were part of the same balance with each fighting to remain on top.

“What is the virtue of loyalty?”

“It is obedience and faithfulness. It is unwavering commitment to House Dayne and the ideals professed. It is never a compromise and should never be given blindly nor should it ever be for sale. Even at times when one might stand alone, being loyal to what was, rather than what is. A knight’s final loyalty to a person or cause may be to tell the truth, no matter how difficult and, most especially if there has been wrong committed.” Arthur responded.

The questions would not end until a victor could be determined.

In the Book of Knight’s Arthur once read that the questioning of Ser Varro’s tournament had lasted from dawn to dusk to dawn again.

“What does the Sword of the Morning fight for?”

Vorian answered immediately, not looking away from the Dawnkeeper.

“I would fight for the glory of House Dayne. I would fight to my dying breath... I live. I die. I am fallen and reborn.” He recited easily.

Yet, a look in Tyus’s black eyes suggested that perhaps Vorian’s answer was not what he had been looking for. Arthur felt the doubt seize his cousin beside him.

“Lord Arthur?” The Dawnkeeper prompted.

Arthur took a breath and placed his hands across his lap to steel his nerves.

“He fights to defend House Dayne, Dorne and the King. The Sword of the Morning’s place is in harm’s way, it is a sacrifice and it is an honour.”

The last question would be Arthur’s.

“Lord Arthur, why do you compete for Dawn?”

It was not the question he was expecting. He knew he could not say it was written in the stars as his lady mother raised him to believe; nor could he say it was the gods will, for the arrogance of it.

“It is my duty...”

Duty. Ser Waters had drilled the word into his soul from his first dawn. 

“As Arthur Dayne I would do anything for my family, my people. And so, I must do this. Long after I am called to the skies, my declarations of words and acts of principle, will still have power to affect the course of events, just as our first Dayne ancestor’s great act took us from the dawn of days. I seek only to continue to preserve my House and protect my family.” 

_Dawn_. A symbol of strength. _Dawn_ was more than a blade. Sword of the Morning was more than a title of glory for one man. The knight of Dawn was an everlasting warrior whose duty never ended, even after death. His fight started before he was born and would continue, Dayne after Dayne, warrior after warrior, until the end of days.

Tyus nodded, and turned to face the council, simply saying, “ _It is done_.”

Arthur had won the first challenge. Relief washed through him and something like self-belief began to battle the doubt that was chained to him.

“Congratulations cousin.” Vorian spoke with a smile.

Although, perhaps 'smile' was not the correct word for it, Arthur thought. The top row of his teeth was showing, and there was a faint curve to the lips, but there was no crease below his emerald eyes, no movement of the cheeks. 

Lady Dayne looked up, unable to fight the prideful expression across her face, and held up her hand as she called out, “ _Dawnkeeper_.”

The Purple Lady handed him the purple armband which signified victory.

Tyus bestowed the band over his arm.

Yet, before Arthur could truly appreciate the moment, Lord Derrik Dayne spoke, annoyance clear in his voice.

“ _Prepare the Starborn, the Witness awaits._ ”

Each Witness was different from the last. The only preparation one could have were of body and mind. The challenge which tested the capacity of their swordsmanship, cunning, courage and strength. It was a display for the crowds of Starfall and the last men standing would compete in the final duel for Dawn. The Witness was famously unpredictable due to the sheer stubbornness of the competitors pushed to inhumane levels of endurance.

Arthur’s heart hammered in his chest, fear gripped him and sweat broke out along his palms.

It made his heart seize up because all of Starfall would bear witness to the Starborn. There was every pressure on his shoulders. Ser Lewyn would be watching, it would be the only opportunity to impress his hero and prove himself worthy for mere consideration as his squire.

Arthur’s hands shook so violently that his borrowed weapon, Ser Lycian’s sword ‘ _Knightsbane’,_ slipped from them.

Although Arthur was angry with his father, he still felt uneasy that it was not Ser Waters sword _‘Mercy’_ he honoured. Yet, Ser Lycian’s beady eyes looking at him with distain and hatred would be far worse than facing his father’s disappointed ones.

“It is time.” Dawnkeeper Tyus called.

Just as Arthur stood, a foot suddenly shot out, striking him hard in the ankle. Before he could do anything, he collapsed onto the floor. Immediately, a hot searing pain shot through his ankle, it was twisted, if not broken.

He refused to yell out, but he hissed at the agony he felt.

“Better stay out of my way, little Art...” Vorian told him with a nasty sneer on his face.

“...I wouldn’t want to see you _hurt_.”

Arthur was unsurprised Tyus did not notice any of what took place. Vorian had always been masterful at deception; was very good at finding the moment when others were not paying attention, and it was then that he struck, with a wide grin and hard eyes.

“I’ll kill you,” Arthur vowed through gritted teeth.

Vorian smirked tauntingly.

“You can try.”

“My lords, is there cause for concern?” Tyus asked.

Vorian simply narrowed his eyes daring Arthur to reveal the truth of what occurred.

Arthur refused to give Vorian the satisfaction of backing down and the victory of ceding because of mere damage to his body. Driftmark had shown him strength was of the mind as much as of the body.

“No. I am ready Dawnkeeper.”

Blazing blue eyes met lecherous green ones as Arthur braced his hands against his legs, fought against the wince he felt as the pressure caused his ankle to throb, and stood up.

“Very well, the Witness awaits.”

As Arthur awaited at his gate, he closed his eyes, and for the first time in a long time, he whispered a prayer.

_“O Warrior, fierce-hearted god of the Seven, full-famed you are as god of war. To you do soldiers  
pray when battle is most heated, to you do we turn in desperate times. We call for strength and for the spirit to endure. Warrior god, your courage is unquestioned, your might and prowess unequalled. I pray to you, grant me the nerve to face what must be faced and the will to do what must be done. Now may you, the Lord of battle, fill me with your fire to forge ahead... and I vow to never again let my arrogance take hold and hand my fate back to your hands. I am not a god, not masterful enough to forge my own fate, I am a mere peasant and I beg for your courage now.”_

Arthur pushed the gate open with fervour and he couldn’t help the ferocious growl which escaped his lips as he threw himself out onto the sands of the arena.

The cheers were like a hurricane of the most tempestuous nature. They echoed around and put the fighting spirit into him. For some, the Witness was a spectacle, but to most, it was spiritual. Knights, nobles, and smallfolk alike painted their faces with silver ash and rubbed purple dye in their hair.

Despite the pain pressure bought to his injured ankle, Arthur ran his lap around the arena.

As Arthur passed, some murmured their own prayers for him under their breath. Eventually he settled down determined, on his block ahead of the Council.

He would prove to everyone watching that he was worthy of the blood that flowed through his veins.

The Dawnkeeper welcomed them and explained the rules.

First, they would be tasked to journey from the uninhabited island, _Dead Man’s Rock,_ across from Starfall, and travel the length of Torrentine bridge and into to the arena. The first to appear in the arena would be named winner but they would have to carry their armour and weapons, which they could further compete with. Second, they were to tame a wild beast to acquire its guarded prize. Lastly, to prove themselves as worthy knights, they would defend an innocent from an unknown threat.


	9. The Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara watches her brother compete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

When the Gong sounded off at Dead Man’s Rock, the stillness and quiet of the arena was the opposite to the earlier electric atmosphere. It almost did not seem as if the Witness had begun.

Ashara’s mother had not allowed her the freedom to follow Arthur from beginning to end, and so instead she sat with the Princess Elia and Prince Oberyn.

They sat for hours, all eagerly anticipating the commentary given by the Dawnkeeper as he narrated the events which unfolded, observing through an enormous Myrish lens.

Although the young Princess attempted to bring Ashara into her conversation with her brother, she could not be coaxed out of her concentration of the Dawnkeeper’s every word.

Ashara held her breath when he began describing scenes of a vicious fight between Ser Alfrid and his son Joff, over the sole boat provided.

Vorian led the race having fashioned himself a make-shift raft and oars.

Arthur followed, having disrobed his heavy armour and swam with only his helm and sword.

“Surely the boy is half mad, there is no way he can swim the distance.” Prince Oberyn spoke.

Ashara’s hands dug into the wooden seat with anxiety. Arthur could swim well, they all could, such was the nature of children born on an island. Yet, even Aethan, the best swimmer in Starfall, would not make such a distance.

“If he was not able, he would not have done it.” Princess Elia spoke.

At some point, Ashara’s hand found the Princess’ own one. Princess Elia had been a kindness she never expected. There was something comforting and almost mothering about her. Ashara supposed it was related to Lady Alyssa’s melancholy and neglect; and she craved the affectionate care of a woman. 

Ashara’s heart all but ceased beating when Tyus announced that Arthur had turned around.

He would not give up, that was not her brother and it worried her to no end that he had diverted his path so close to overtaking Vorian.

She could only hear the blood rushing to her ears and little else.

“Lady Ashara, your brother is fine. The Dawnkeeper says he saved Joff from drowning, they swim together.”

Princess Elia gave a squeeze of her hand to calm her.

_“...In the lead still, Lord Vorian is moments from land, followed closely by Ser Alfrid. Lord Arthur and Joff are far behind as they struggle against heavy armour and growing waves...”_

“Come on Arthur,” She whispered.

Seconds turned to long _long_ minutes. The arena was completely still in anticipation and even the drunken among them had ceased heckling.

_“...Lord Arthur has abandoned his sword...”_

The entire arena gasped. If nothing else, the sword was the single most important item to return with, so he might have a wisp of a chance in the challenges to come.

“The boy’s a bloody fool!” Ashara heard Ser Lycian bellow in anger.

The High Hermitage camp erupted into laughter and for the first time, Ashara decided she hated her cousins from down the river.

_“...Lord Arthur carries both himself and Joff towards land...”_

He would make it. It did not matter that he might lose this challenge, he just needed to finish.

Vorian Dayne was the first to arrive in the arena, earning loud cheers, particularly from the High Hermitage crowd.

Ser Alfrid followed moments after. His arrival was met with jeers and scorn; for the knight who would abandon and damn his own son so that he might win.

Almost an hour after, finally, Arthur came hobbling in supported by an equally exhausted Joff Sand.

Ashara released a breath she had no idea she held in. Yet, she was too quick to relax for when his eyes found hers, she saw pain in them. He was leaning almost entirely on Joff and it was not from exhaustion, something had happened to his foot.

Her stomach dropped.

Arthur would never forfeit, even if it meant risking death. His foot would be a handicap that might just end up getting him killed.

When each Dayne had returned to their platform, Lady Dayne spoke.

“Dawnkeeper, for the victor...”

The victors’ armband was bestowed over the arm of their wickedly smiling cousin Vorian.

“...and this is for Lord Arthur...”

A lilac ring was presented to Arthur as their Lady mother addressed the arena.

“...for his act of valour and bravery, for rescuing Joff who might have drowned to death were it not for Arthur’s mercy. He displayed to us that he is a worthy candidate for Dawn. To risk one’s own life for kin, for those suffering, is the pillar of morality that the Sword of the Morning is built upon.”

Ashara felt pride as she watched surprise settle across his face. He was worthy. She had always known and now he remembered too. In his eyes, she saw the glint of the confident boy he once was before Driftmark.

For the next challenge, one by one, each Dayne would face taming a wild beast in order to retrieve a valued possession.

-

The first shock of the tournament came moments after Arthur was given his ring.

“Dawnkeeper!” Joff Sand spoke.

“I wish to give up my own sword for Lord Arthur. It would be selfish of me to keep it when he abandoned his in order to save me from certain death.”

Murmurs spread around the arena as the Dawnkeeper looked to the council.

“Is he allowed to do that?” Princess Elia asked Ashara.

“Only if all the members of the council vote in favour.”

Starting from Lady Alyssa each member cast their vote.

Princess Furiosa, Ser Llewyn, Maester Murlin, Alyn Dayne, Sara Dayne, Rob Sandstar.

_Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes._

The last to vote was Lord Derrik of High Hermitage.

He looked to Arthur and to his son Vorian.

Ashara felt anger begin to build within her. Lord Derrik had always sought to pit the Dayne’s of High Hermitage against Starfall.

“Do you cede your place Joff?” He asked the boy who held out his sword.

“Yes, my lord.”

Joff sacrificed his own chance for Arthur, something which would not only lose him Dawn but respect.

“Why would he need a sword to tame a wild beast? If Lord Arthur completes this task without one, I will consent for you to give him your sword.”

Ashara nearly scrambled out of her chair, whether to fight the thin lord, or to run and hide, she was not sure.

“You will not do your brother any good if you are banned or run from the arena. He needs you. Be strong, Lady Ashara.”

She felt the Princess Elia’s tight grip on her hand, stilling her and preventing her from jumping out.

Ashara stared at the older girl whose steely gaze watched her until she felt was sure her anger had settled.

As the default loser with Joff’s forfeit, Arthur was first to attempt the challenge.

Everyone waited in itchy anticipation as they heard the whines and moaning of an animal from beneath the stands of the arena.

Again, Ashara’s heart picked up pace, fearing what monster might appear to threaten her brother.

When the guards appeared and revealed the caged animal, Ashara’s blood ran cold, and this time it was Princess Elia who reached out for her hand. Although, she gave her a smile, Ashara could feel the tenseness of her grip, the Princess was afraid of lions.

A great shaggy mane of gold appeared as the creature used its giant paws to pad restlessly against the sands of the arena. The lion stopped at the edge of the shade and let out an ear-splitting roar. It was nothing like human speech or bird song, but more of a raw sound that started deep within its body and was projected into the air with so much force that Ashara was sure it could be heard on the Dornish mainland. 

The lion moaned and whined, clearly vexed by something.

When the great beast made eye contact with Arthur the entire arena took a collective breath.

One of the guards in the sands surprised them all and threw his shield to Arthur’s feet. 

Arthur was loved, and even if Lord Derrik had refused to protect him, the people of Starfall would. It was all Ashara could ask for, she herself being unable to do anything.

Arthur shuffled slowly toward the shield, avoiding his injured leg, as the lion eyed him wearily. It moaned again as whatever was irritating it took its attention again.

The silence of the arena was deafening. The hair on the back of Ashara’s neck prickled with every whine of the animal and movement of Arthur.

Arthur dove just in time to capture the shield and hide beneath as the lion jumped at him.

Bile rose in Ashara’s throat as its paws beat at the shield.

“I can’t watch.” She spoke burying her face into Princess Elia’s shoulder.

Ashara relied on the sounds of the audience to tell her what was happening, although she found that was not much better. The gasps and sighs only building her anxiety.

Panic began to set in when there was a ripple of murmurs across the arena.

_“Seven hells, what is he doing?”_

“Look...” Princess Elia spoke, gently bringing her attention back to the display.

Arthur stood with his hands out in surrender and shield discarded.

The lion was no longer focussed on him, it was now Arthur who circled the uneasy beast nervously.

All were at the edge of their seats when Arthur began to speak.

“Do you not like your shadow?”

Arthur had figured out its distress.

“Shh...”

The lion jumped again, whining and hitting the sand at its shadow.

“Look, that’s you and that’s me...”

Arthur pointed at the dark figures painted by the sun. He inched closer, hands still up.

Everyone gasped when it roared again; jaws wide and frustration let out.

“Hush... you are free now.”

Arthur’s words soothed the great beast and it seemed the entire atmosphere shifted from anxiety to careful calm.

“...come.”

The lion grazed against his hand and Princess Elia’s tightened against Ashara’s.

Arthur led the beast back into the shade and slowly he backed away to claim his prize.

Once the prize was retrieved and the lion returned to its cage the celebrations begun.

It was all quiet one moment and then deafening the next, cheers raised to an untameable crescendo. With the cheers came fists in the air and eyes flung wide. They were electrified, awake, and soared to new heights of emotion. His victory was one for them all and Ashara felt nothing but pride looking at her brother.

The cheers died down as quickly as they started; Ser Alfrid’s beast was a six-legged basilisk.

Even with his sword, the knight stood little chance; this animal was small yet fast and there were no cheers as they all watched him ripped to shreds.

The Dawnkeeper eventually called the guards to recapture the beast and take the severely injured Dayne for treatment.

By the time Vorian swiftly killed a wild auroch there was little joy to be found with the previous bloody scene still fresh in their minds.

-

Ashara found that she could only breath again in the final challenge. Arthur and Vorian were to guard two volunteers of the smallfolk from Freerider sellswords fighting for a hope of being taken into House Dayne’s service.

Although Arthur was given Joff’s sword, it was Vorian who shone in the challenge. One by one the sellswords came at them, and one by one they fell to Dayne weapons. It was their smiling cousin who devised a strategy that would see them both victorious against a league of twenty. The cunning and leadership he displayed would see him named victor and bestowed his own ring of valour.

With only two left standing, Arthur and Vorian, it came time for the council to deliberate if they were worthy to battle for Dawn in a final duel.

Again, it was the Purple Lady first to cast her vote; throwing a purple stone into the arena.

Princess Furiosa, Ser Llewyn, Maester Murlin, Alyn Dayne, Sara Dayne, Rob Sandstar...

_Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes._

...Lord Derrik.

“Yes.”

Arthur had done it. Vorian had done it. _Finally._ After three generations there was a knight worthy of Dawn.

The cheers were thunderous and each and all in the crowd gave every ounce of power in their lungs to let the Starborn know, they had witnessed and how proud they were.


	10. Endurance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara gets down to the bottom of Arthur's worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

Ashara was not surprised to find her brother on the shores of Starfall in the moonlight, the night before the duel for Dawn. She had sought to locate Arthur after the Witness to congratulate but he had not appeared at the celebratory feast. Whilst Vorian enjoyed basking in triumph, Arthur would be thinking of what was to come.

When Ashara found him, he was stood in the moonlight watching the waves curl in on themselves. She noticed he had his father’s size now, and what was once a pretty face became handsome and chiselled; with his father’s frown and mothers laugh lines around his eyes.

“Big brother.”

He greeted her with a half-hearted grin and there was a tangible gloom hanging in the air. Ashara could hardly breathe, looking into his sad bluish-indigo eyes.

“What are you still doing out here?”

Ashara moved close enough to touch him and saw in his eyes the vulnerable boy that had always been the light of her life.

There was something different about him, something she had noticed the moment he appeared back in Starfall. She knew with age people changed but there was something weighing down on his very soul. Something more than the worry of the tournament. Whatever it was, seemed to be so heavy, he walked with his shoulders and head down turned. He disguised the sadness well enough with his dazzling smiles when it was required of him. No one else seemed to notice, not even Aethan, who was more observant than most.

Arthur did respond for a while. He wore the deep frown he returned from Driftmark with. The fresh-faced mischievous brother of hers was buried inside this _new_ Arthur. His features were harder now, older, scarred.

“Thinking, I guess.” He responded eventually with a sigh.

She hoped the sadness which lingered about him might have been alleviated with his win, but it was as if none of the events of the Witness had occurred.

“Aethan told me it was Vorian that injured your foot.”

When he explained to her that their cousin all but sabotaged Arthur, she had been ready to battle him herself.

“It does not matter now. Besides, Maester Murlin wrapped it up well enough for tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, the final duel for the honour of Sword of the Morning. The battle for Dawn would be to the death, and Ashara did not allow her mind to think of the unimaginable. Arthur would win, he had to.

Ashara noticed his shiver and sat closer to him.

“I’m still allowed to hate Vorian for hurting you.”

A silence enveloped them, and they remained quiet for what seemed like hours.

Ashara regarded his face as he in turn watched the waves. Her lungs felt like they might burst from despair, seeing him so solemn.

Finally, he broke the quiet with a whispered confession.

“There is none who has supported me more than you. I hope you know how much it means to me.”

She noticed him fidgeting, almost itching in his own skin. His nervousness scared her.

She moved to kneel in front of him, and slowly took his hands in her own.

“You sound as if you think it might all be over for you...” she said staring into the desperate eyes which never flinched. They weren’t menacing eyes like Vorian’s but orbs of softness that she knew and loved beyond all else.

No answer was voiced. 

“...but that is not _you_. The Arthur I know faces whatever is in front of him, and I know you will do that now.”

He looked at her as if the gods themselves spoke directly to him, but again, he said nothing. 

“What is bothering you?”

He pulled away from her with the inquiry.

She searched his eyes, his movements… he was hiding.

“It has been tougher than I expected…wanting to be Sword of the Morning,” he sighed.

“It’s stupid, isn’t it?” He asked with a fallen smile.

Ashara watched on sadly.

“No. Fame and glory is no easy feat I’m sure. To be the chosen one must be even harder still.” She told him quietly.

“There is that…”

He shook his head, his eyes no longer focused, dark thoughts deepening his mood.

“Something has changed in you, brother. What happened at Driftmark?” She asked.

His eyes turned serious at her words.

In all his time back, he uttered not a single true word about Driftmark. It was more than worry about not being good enough, something had shaken him to his core.

He turned his head away, a sign since childhood that he would refuse to talk. Yet, she no longer knew the boy in front of her, and was not certain he would come to her later and divulge his thoughts.

“Arthur.”

He took a deep breath, but no words came.

“Arthur, what is it?”

Suddenly, he became terribly angry and violently kicked sand toward the sea.

“Seven hells Asha, let it be!”

He began growling obscenities.

She tried to reason with him as he drew his eyes back to the ocean. He was furious in a way she hadn’t ever seen before; a rage begetting that of a deeply troubled boy. Arthur disappeared into himself.

She saw that he would not calm, and instead, she began to dance to the rhythm of the waves. 

She jumped and pirouetted from dune to dune until she saw that the storm in him cleared.

She came to sit beside him once more and watched a variety of emotions flash across his face; _shame, embarrassment, fear._

“Asha…” Arthur breathed.

There was more to his sentence, she could sense it, but he just fell quiet.

“Yes, brother?” She prompted.

“What was that?”

His mood had calmed dramatically.

“It’s called _coming home_. I practised it for you, I was going to debut it at your victor’s celebrations.”

Her and Wylla had composed song and dance for weeks leading up to Arthur’s return; if she was ever going to achieve her dream, there would be no greater place than her brother’s ascension. They would rise together.

“It was beautiful.”

“Are you well?” she asked, curious and worried.

He was so lost, even here, in his home and Ashara was at a loss.

“I am sorry,” he admitted, voice a near whisper.

“You’re forgiven, always.”

She meant it. He could do no wrong, not to her, never to her.

“Brother… _please_ tell me what has happened to you.”

He looked older in that moment, more like their father than he had ever done before.

“They said – _father_ said Driftmark would make me a man, give me strength and courage in myself. Instead, I lost faith in myself, they beat it out of me.”

His voice was as quiet as Ser Waters usually was. 

He, although suave for the world to see, was absolutely broken in front of Ashara.

“All my life I dreamed of Dawn. I saw myself _the_ Sword of the Morning, as clearly as I see you here…”

His eyes would not meet her own.

“…Now, I don’t know. I am nothing, I am weak –”

Tears fell from her watching the boy that bore her brother’s face and yet not his spirit.

“You are a Dayne, the blood of kings and the First Men.”

The Daynes had been kings of the Torrentine in the Age of Heroes. They could even claim descent from Nymeria of the Rhoynar through her third marriage to Ser Davos Dayne. Ashara would remind him exactly who he was.

“I am the son of a bastard.” He countered.

A voice came from behind, startling both of them.

“And upon the battlefield it matters not whose blood runs through you.” Ser Waters spoke, clearly having heard their exchange.

Arthur looked down in embarrassment, but Ser Waters caught his chin in his hand.

“Driftmark is a hateful place. Ser Lycian is even more hateful, as you well know. Yet, no beating or degrading insult can take away what you are. Arthur Dayne, you are favoured by the gods, you always have been.”

Their father pulled out two swords and handed them to Arthur.

“What does a knight do?” Ser Waters asked.

“He fights. It is his duty.”

These were the questions his father had asked him and Aethan with every of his training sessions. Each time Ashara would hear the same three questions, the same three tests.

“What are you fighting for?”

“For my family, for House Dayne, for Dorne.”

Ser Waters pulled out his own great sword and dragged his son to his feet.

“And if someone were to harm them?”

Arthur did not falter when their father lunged at him.

“I would kill them or die trying!” He yelled.

The first meeting of their swords was a warning. 

“Do not be afraid…” Ser Waters tutored as they circled one another.

There was great caution in Arthur’s steps.

“…Fear is weakness. Never let it disturb your peace.”

Arthur attacked his father with a twirl and both swords sounded against Ser Waters defence.

When Arthur failed to pursue his advantage, he received a hard kick to the chest sending him momentarily tripping backwards.

“Do not die stupidly.”

Ser Waters had no mercy as he violently struck again, with a speed and grace uncommon for a man his size.

Ashara knew that Ser Waters intended a knight to walk away from this fight. He himself, an excellent swordsman; knighted by Prince Daeron Targaryen during the squashed rebellion of The Rat, the Hawk, and the Pig.

“I am not going to die!” Arthur growled attacking and wounding his father’s arm briefly.

Whatever Driftmark had attempted to beat out of her brother was unsuccessful. He was ablaze in the moonlight, two long swords danced as extensions of his arms. Ashara never much cared for fighting but the beauty in which Arthur moved was something to behold.

Ser Waters thrust his weapon forward, only to be stopped by Arthur’s. Both swords captured the Silent Knight’s in the air with a resounding 'clang'. With renewed vigour, Arthur slashed his right blade back and forth knocking his Ser Waters’ sword to the ground.

Next, as his father attempted to take his feet out from under him; Arthur jumped and spun to knock the heavy knight’s knees from behind, forcing him to his knees.

Arthur had won; both swords on either side of his father’s neck as he stared down with bloodlust.

Even if his confidence was gone, her brother was already the deadliest swordsman in all the kingdoms.

However, the rage from earlier had returned to his stormy eyes and for a moment Ashara wondered if he intended to truly silence their father forever.

“Son…” Ser Waters spoke cautiously, coming to the same conclusion as Ashara.

Tears welled in the eyes that once had only ever been filled with laughter and Ashara’s heart broke.

“Arthur.” She called out to him, but his steely gaze never lifted from his father.

There was hatred and disgust in his expression and it scared Ashara.

“He left me there! He left me to suffer with those people knowing what they were like. Knowing they would spit on me, name me a stain, beat me within an inch of my life, _break_ me.” He accused with heart-breaking fury.

Ser Waters own eyes watered and for the first-time tears fell.

Ashara was at a loss.

“I thought it would make you strong.” He admitted.

“Did it make _you_ strong father? The man who cannot even stand up for himself now.” Arthur spat.

Ashara placed her hand over his on the hilt of his sword. For all of her father’s failings, he always stood for his children.

“He has always taken up for us... for you.” Ashara reminded.

Ashara felt her father gently push her away, determined to take his sons anger.

“Arthur, they did not break you. This strength, _here,_ is the lesson I could not teach you. A man’s life is suffering and endurance; and you _did_ endure...”

His voice was strong in a way she hadn’t heard before.

“...Son, I am sorry for what happened to you. I am sorry I allowed it.”

Ashara understood what her father had intended when he reluctantly decided to leave Arthur behind in Driftmark. He could not have known the extent of damage they would do. Ashara could only imagine the damage done to leave Arthur so close to broken. Yet, as horrific as the suffering; he had endured, and despite his wavering confidence, he came back stronger. He only needed to see it.

Arthur dropped his swords and dropped to his knees in despair.

Ashara watched as the weight that he carried with him since his return lifted. He released the pain and anger as he wept into their father’s embrace.

Arthur would be their soldier; the Sword of the Morning, but Ashara wondered who would be his. Who would be there to save the hero after he saved the realm, after he was left alone and crying out for help?

It tore her apart to see her brother in so much pain. From this, Ashara made a vow. She swore to the Lord of Light and Gods of the Seven that she would be her brother’s keeper as much as he would be hers.

“I’ll always be at your side brother...” She promised.

“…and when the burden of greatness becomes too much to bear, I’ll still be here.”

She joined their embrace.

“Why?”

“Because you alone are worthy, you are favoured.” Ashara said with fervour.

“I am?”

She nodded.

“I am,” he repeated.

In his voice she heard the small wisp of hope in his hushed remark.


	11. Sword of the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur battles for Dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur

Arthur woke at first light to prepare for the final duel, the battle for Dawn. After he made amends with his father the previous night, he had found himself again, he found home. So, when he awoke, the first thing he wanted to do was return _Knightsbane_ in favour of the sword he should have been using all along, _Mercy_.

“You’ll regret this, boy...” Ser Lycian spat when Arthur returned his Sword.

“...and you too, bastard. You will regret this.”

There was nothing more his vicious mentor could do to him. He was home and soon enough he would be Sword of the Morning; the deadliest knight in all the realm.

“There is no point in regrets Ser, the boy has made a choice.” Ser Waters responded with a confidence Arthur had never seen before.

It was clear Ser Lycian did not expect it either, for the way his mouth opened and closed like a fish.

“Come Arthur, it is time.”

The pair walked away from the seething knight, Arthur holding _Mercy_ proudly in his hands.

They met Aethan and Ashara at the castle courtyard. Ser Waters insisted they walk down to the arena together.

Arthur’s confidence had returned but he would be lying if he said he was not still riddled with anxiety. In the Witness Vorian proved himself to be formidable and he could not be counted out. Furthermore, there would be no armour, only helms and swords. Any scars received this day would never be forgotten.

When they reached the arena, Arthur pushed down the queasiness in his stomach. He would not put a single doubt in his siblings’ minds, he could not afford to. If they lost faith in him, then he was sure he would lose.

Aethan handed him a helm; a dark silver head guard with stars half sticking out as spikes.

“My little brother, my hero. I wish I could do this for you, but this is your path. I know you can do it.” Aethan said bringing their foreheads together.

Whatever came, Arthur knew he would be there for him. That reliability, that trust, it built and sustained the bond of brothers. 

Next, he walked towards the person who was his greatest joy and embraced her. There were no tears in her eyes as there were in his own.

“Arthur, I will see you on the other side of dawn.” She whispered with resolute surety.

He raised one shaking finger to brush her cheek. “Thank you for believing in me.”

She planted a kiss atop his forehead before Aethan ushered her away.

Arthur was left standing with Ser Waters.

“My sword and my knowledge are all I have ever had to give you. I hope it has been enough.”

Standing across from his father, Arthur realised how much he had changed in his time away from home. He was no longer a boy. He was nearly his father’s size with his mother’s beauty. Yet, he was his own man now.

“I’ll fight to make you proud. I’ll fight for my family, my House, as you have taught me.”

His father’s face split into a genuine smile. It was one of happiness growing, with tears at the eyes. He saw how it came from deep inside to light his eyes and spread into every part of him.

“Then you are ready.” His father said.

In the distance, they heard the bustling of anticipation as the Dawnkeeper addressed the arena. It made his stomach swirl. The nausea clawed at his throat, and he attempted to force down the bile, but it was too late. With one violent contraction the congealed contents of his stomach emerged.

“How do you know I am ready?”

“The man who is obsessed with succeeding has already failed. A true knight fights for something more than himself, more than the glory of blood and death.”

Arthur could not help the panic he felt building as the opening ceremony of drums began. He heaved again and the vile smelling contents sprayed the ground. Desperately searching for grounding, he looked up at his father with wide eyes.

“I know you say fear is weakness, but I _am_ afraid to die,” he confessed, softly. It was a forgivable confession, only because he could be dead within the hour.

“Good. That means you will do everything you can to survive.”

They heard the final gongs and Vorian’s name called.

His father placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

“The night before my first battle, I cried. And then I stopped—and did what I had to do.”

He squeezed his shoulder and gave him an encouraging nod.

“Son, let us see your duty to end.”

When the gate opened, sunlight filtered in. Arthur took a deep breath.

 _“I live! I die! I am Fallen and Reborn! I am the one who grabs the sun! And by my hand I’ll bring the Dawn!_ ” He chanted as he made his entrance.

The crowd erupted into wild roars at the sight of him and he lapped it up as his heart hammered within his ribcage. The atmosphere was one of elation and promise, the warm summer air occasionally punctuated by whoops and hollers. He heard the chants of his name from the people he passed, saw the way that the councils' eyes all seemed to naturally flicker to him.

He swallowed as he took his place next to Vorian at the centre of the arena facing the council.

“Dawn’s duel...” Dawnkeeper Tyus began, projecting his voice.

“...is the final test for those who proved themselves worthy. Yet, there can only be one and these two Daynes; Lord Arthur and Lord Vorian, will duel to the death...”

He looked to Vorian whose feigned smiling gaze met his. Arthur saw something akin to compassion in emerald eyes. Despite the animosity between them, he was not duelling an enemy, they were kin.

‘ _This is duty_.’ Arthur repeated in thought.

When it was all over and done, Arthur would be the one to shoot the flaming arrow onto Vorian’s funeral boat adrift the Torrentine River, so that his spirit would be reborn and join their ancestors among the stars.

The first Dayne was said to have descended from the stars. It was myth, surely embedded with lies, yet Arthur yearned for it to be true. Perhaps there was a passage back to the skies.

“...From the First Man who wielded Dawn to the successor chosen today, House Dayne will live on. It will be their honour and duty to defend our people. To the victor, whoever that might be, I implore you to remember to not only be worthy here today but to live with dedication to the greatness of character, by holding to the virtues of a knight and the pillars of Sword of the Morning. Yet, remember that these ideals cannot always be maintained, and that it is the quality of striving towards them which ennobles your soul...”

The Dawnkeeper beckoned them forward.

Ceremoniously, Arthur and Vorian knelt to the council, kissed their swords and brought their forehead and nose together in a show of respect.

They each put on their helms; eyes never leaving the other.

“I guess the gods must want us to fight...”

Vorian glanced at his strapped ankle.

“...I hoped it wouldn’t be you, and yet I knew it would be. Little Art.”

He sounded like the boy Arthur was once so close to. The cousin who challenged him with everything and never let him win but also never let him feel defeated.

“I’ll give you an honourable death, cousin.” Arthur vowed.

Vorian burst into a loud harsh cackle of laughter. 

The initiating gong sounded, and duty called.

 _Mercy_ twirled in Arthur’s hand and _Never Surrender_ in Vorian’s. They danced around each other, mirroring every move like a reflection in tranquil waters.

Although Vorian was three years his senior, Arthur stood at his height and was the more muscular. Nonetheless, he was still lithe and judging from his performance in the Witness, he had grown to be deadly with his sword.

Vorian was the first to attack, throwing his arm with unrestrained power. Unlike meeting an enemy on the field, they had nothing to hide from one another. They had learnt to hold swords together; it would do no good to attempt to play tricks against the mind.

Arthur caught the initial thrust of his sword, and it reverberated across the arena sending the crowd into booming hurrahs.

Vorian was ferocious, like the beasts they had battled the day previous, reduced to instinct.

He swung again, full weight thrown into the action making him slow and heavy. Arthur dodged it easily, jabbing at Vorian’s leg in the same movement. The gash was long and shallow, soaking purple leather in red blood. Arthur failed to act in his advantage and hissing, Vorian kicked him, boot thudding hard against his chest.

Arthur shuffled back at the impact but did not fall. Instead, he shook the ache from his bones.

Vorian recovered just as quickly, waving his arms encouragingly to gather the crowd's attention, basking in the cheers and jeers alike. He meant to make it a spectacle.

For many minutes, the two fought. Arthur dodged the majority of the attacks, only receiving a couple of hits to his sides and thighs. While each hit made him wince, they did not draw blood nor slow him down. In retaliation, he returned each hurt, getting drawn into Vorian’s lust for performance.

They sparred until sweat dripped inside his helm and his lungs burned with effort. He attacked and Vorian dodged; Arthur pushed and he defended, both looking for an opportunity to bring the fight to an end.

He hated that he was here, that there was no other choice. He might not have been willing to take the coward’s way to death, and he might have sworn, less than a day ago, to kill Vorian with his own two hands, but this is not what he wanted to happen. He did not enjoy fighting in front of all these people. He did not enjoy the cheers or even the praises that came from hurting his kin.

Suddenly, he saw an opportunity. Arthur danced to the right, sidestepping an attack, he saw that Vorian was distracted and his grip on his sword had loosened; and the momentary knowledge was all he needed. He invaded his space quickly, grabbed the hilt of his sword and yanked it away to fly behind him. Arthur stepped in front of the sword, with his own raised ready in front of him, and he felt a relief knowing that him being unarmed meant it would not be long now.

His relief was short-lived as he watched Vorian headbutt one of the arena guards and jerk away his shield and spear. The audience reacted with boos, growls and whispers. Nonetheless, his attention did not leave Vorian, who seemed revitalised behind his flaming green-eyed gaze.

He half expected the Dawnkeeper to call a stop to the fight: spears, and any weapons other than the swords, were forbidden in this arena, and he as well as everyone else there knew that. Yet, none of authority protested and so Arthur continued and shifted his stance, sinking into it deeper. If Vorian wanted to keep going, make a spectacle of his death, then fine, Arthur would sustain; and this time there would be nothing held back. So, Arthur picked up Vorian’s lost sword and spun each in preparation. There would be no mercy or surrender.

Vorian laughed and grinned his usual wide grin.

“That’s more like it, cousin!”

Arthur refused to listen to him or the crowd. With one hand, he attacked with _Mercy_ and stabbed Vorian deep in the thigh with the other. This was the first true blood of the fight.

The advantage was Arthur’s and yet still he failed to follow through and end it, end him.

In the momentary hesitation, Vorian wasted no time in knocking Arthur down with his enormous shield. The momentum had caught him unawares, and instead of quickly rising, he laid flat on his back with the wind forced completely out of him. He laid rigid and paralysed, but he wouldn't let it be seen. With all his will, he prevented himself from wheezing. Only through his parted lips he drew tiny controlled gasps.

Vorian screamed around him, riling the masses up.

“Come and witness...”

War drums vibrated in Arthur’s ears, too fast for his lungs to catch up.

“...Come and see! Brothers in blood and brothers in arms fight each other...”

The crowd was screaming, the sound muffled and retreated to the back of Arthur’s mind, far away from his true focus. His gaze found violet eyes amidst the chaos, and what he saw was not fear but faith.

Ashara cheered at him to rise, “Arthur Dayne, rise! Rise! Rise!”

In the strange tranquillity, Arthur found strength for prayer. He looked to the closest star in the sky, the scorching sun, and begged.

_‘Warrior, god of the Seven, I stand in the midst of a storm and ask for your protection... please, help me.’_

“...Come and witness the wasted blood of a boy not fit to be a knight!”

Vorian was incensed, fuelled with rage and hurt. In his rampage he kicked _Never Surrender_ from Arthur’s hand.

Although Arthur still needed more time, time to unfold his lungs and breathe again. When Vorian’s spear came hurtling down, he rolled away, choking on his breath, dust settling on his tongue.

“Come and see... the would-be Sword of the Morning!”

Vorian’s spear thrust repeated, and again and again it smacked dirt, until Arthur rolled into it. The unexpected collision jolted Vorian’s arms and the spear fell away.

Arthur wasted no time to grasp Vorian’s leg and tackle him to the ground, winding him too in the effort. The younger Dayne climbed up his opponent’s body; still recovering from his last injury.

He would end it.

Arthur gripped _Mercy_ with his right hand, holding it steady as he prepared to take his life. He stood atop Vorian with his blade against his neck for a long moment, not looking away as he glared down at him.

He waited, knowing that it was he who had to end the fight, yet he held himself still, waiting for something... for courage to make him a kinslayer.

It did not come. He stood there for many moments, the seconds ticking by, and no one made a sound.

“Do it.” Vorian taunted.

His mouth went dry and his palms began to sweat. The spirit of the Warrior that had been flowing through him seemed to drain out completely. His heart hammered in his chest, not understanding why he couldn’t do it. Vorian was down, clearly defeated, and so all he needed to do was end it.

“Do it!” He screamed again.

Arthur’s grip on his sword tightened, eyes momentarily flicking back to the council, and he pressed down just a fraction harder against his neck, hearing his breath begin to strain against the pressure.

“Get up and fight, you insolent boy! If you die, you die a coward. I will not have your body burned beneath the stars; you will never ascend to the heavens and feast with the knights of our House.” Lord Derrik Dayne shouted in the silence of the arena.

The crowd gasped in shock, for a Lord to curse his own son so was unimaginable.

Arthur was hardly surprised when Vorian rolled to try and escape. Arthur jumped and found advantage again; his sword resting more threateningly against his neck.

“Surrender.” Arthur urged.

Vorian ignored him and attempted again and again. With each attempt, Arthur punished him for it; a blade across the arm; a deeper stab into his shoulder; a slicing wound from cheek to mouth.

He did not smile back at Vorian’s unhinged bloody grin. He did not scream his own victory. Instead, he sliced at him again and again, willing him to concede, willing him to live.

When they were both a crimson mess, Vorian near unable to move from the extent of the damage and Arthur stained in his cousin’s blood.

“Why do we fight each other! We are kin, I cannot kill my cousin...”

Arthur’s own temper erupted inside him.

There were murmurs within the crowd and as he looked up there was pity and confusion.

“... Me against my kin, my kin and I against our enemies...”

Knights were supposed to be honourable; this was blood sport. Surely, he could not be worthy of Dawn if his code was blood and glory in the name of House Dayne.

As he stared down at his cousin who he had played with when they were children, he would never be truly worthy if he murdered him. Vorian was not his enemy.

“... _This_ is the chaos of this world.”

House Dayne was furiously loyal, and despite resentments, there had never been wars within. Not even when Princess Nymeria sent the first Vorian Dayne, last king of the Torrentine, to the wall, after his cousin Ser Davos, Sword of the Morning, surrendered to save the annihilation of House Dayne. 

“The duty of Sword of the Morning is to his House. It is his duty to avert chaos, battle against it and resist the urge to become savage. Because if we follow this jungle law, we will never stop fighting...”

Arthur was only ten and four, but he knew he had enough of fighting.

 _“From the Fallen Star, We Bring Dawn_...”

Immediately, the Dayne’s of the congregation answered his call.

“ _For we are Fallen and Reborn!”_

He threw his sword to the sand.

“...what Dawn can there be if only war waits on the other side of it?”

His question was met with silence so quiet he could hear the waves of the shore from the arena.

Gasps came but they were not for Arthur. When he turned, Vorian was crawling towards his sword _Never Surrender_ ; pulling himself by sheer willpower and not by physical strength. Once in his hand, he struggled to get to his feet. He wobbled and fell three times before Arthur caught him in his arms.

“Surrender now Vorian and we will rise as brothers...”

He met emerald swollen eyes.

“...Surrender and I vow to always treat and recognise you as my equal.”

For a moment, Arthur truly believed Vorian would keep fighting until his hand was forced to act. Instead, he took a deep breath, faced the council and bowed. He pointed his sword to the sky and tossed it down. He had _surrendered_.

Vorian toppled over and Arthur was there to catch him. They were kin, not enemies.

He pulled Arthur’s ear down to his mouth.

“Go.” He whispered through raggedy breaths.

Arthur looked up, his eyes roving over the council and to the Dawnkeeper’s.

Vorian tugged again and spoke the words that would propel his legs into action.

“Dawn.”

Soon enough, the Starfall crowds began shouting the same commands.

_“Go!”_

He ran toward the castle, past cheering crowds, and as his feet kissed the ground, in his peripheral, he caught a glimpse of dark hair running with him; Ashara. She covered the uneven paving stones with a great lolloping gait. And they ran, like shooting stars soaring across indigo skies and a pack of lions racing through verdant meadows. Now, he knew exactly who he was and where he was going.

When they reached Dawn’s hall, the gigantic windows were wide open so that those at the arena could watch the unsheathing of the milky sword.

He looked to Ashara, who stared up at him like he had invented the stars and the skies himself.

He placed his hands on the hilt of the sword, like he had done many times before and he wriggled the weapon. When he found it easy to move, he wondered if it truly the spirit of Dawn that had chosen him.

He looked to his sister, mischief in his eyes.

“Join me, Asha.”

Her big violet eyes widened.

“I can’t, this is your momen –“

“This is as much your moment as mine, who else would I dedicate Dawn to?”

She looked to the screaming crowds below and looked back at him wearily.

“Come...”

She laughed at his stubbornness but relented.

Finally, they easily pulled the sword free, and together they would bring the Dawn.

When they returned to the arena, Dawnkeeper Tyus bestowed him Dawn’s scabbard.

“May I, _Sword of the Morning_?”

After a nod, he strapped it on, the purple leather fabric rough and heavy around his waist.

When he looked out into the crowd, who stared back at him, reverent, he saw the duty of Dawn. What followed he would never forget, not for the rest of his days, all who witnessed, excluding their royal liege’s party, knelt, like a great wave.

The feeling of power was overshadowed by the great weight of responsibility, especially when Vorian again stumbled to his knees, a mixture of sadness and pride on his half-mutilated face. Looking down at him, Arthur understood the terrible truth of honour and the cost of duty. The citizens of Starfall and High Hermitage—his kin—knew the same tremendous grief that encompassed him eighty times over.


	12. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara's world is changed by a terrible attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning* Implied assault of a minor and aftermath in next 2 chapters. No graphic detail but warning if triggered by topic.
> 
> Ashara

** Silence **

Ashara had watched her brother ascend as victor with nothing but pride in her heart. Yet, what began as the greatest day turned into the worst. She was supposed to have met with Arthur, to show him the dance she was going to debut at his celebrations a last time. They agreed to meet at the rockpools before, but he never showed. Instead, Igon, the young guard from the Velaryon’s party, informed her Arthur was already the feast.

“He requested you arrive as promptly as possible Lady Ashara, is there a way quicker than the bridge?” Igon asked with a sweet grin across his face.

Had she known his composure would turn from sweet to sour the moment they were out of sight, she would never have taken the secret passage toward Palestone Sword tower. 

So close to safety, she had already started to pitter-patter her feet to the rhythm of the drums. She was assured with a warm smile that turned sinister, and then, he grabbed her with ill intentions. For a moment, she did not scream or fight back, completely paralyzed by fear and shock. Although she was not yet a woman grown, in the terrifying moments of her assault, she knew she would never be a child again.

Yet, somewhere between the thrumming of the drums, Ashara found the strength to escape her assailant and run.

 _‘Da, Da, Da, Dum,’_ sounded the drums.

Her feet ran in time with the beat.

_Da, Da, Da, Dum._

Her heart fluttered with anticipation.

 _Da, Da, Da, Dum_.

She daren’t look back for the monster she knew was pursing her.

She opened her mouth to scream out and only a strangled sound came. She hoped Arthur might hear her, she wanted her brother to _save_ her, he was the Sword of the Morning now, was this not the type of danger he was dutybound to protect her from.

Her legs sprinted with one destination in mind, she passed pillar after post after tower.

_Da, Da, Da, Dum._

Her breathing was ragged, and she was tiring out, only a thin girl, and still _so_ young. She felt hot tears prick her eyes. She considered relenting, and just as she nearly dropped, she saw up ahead; the entrance to Palestone Sword tower.

Only yards away now, she felt a smile reach her lips as she continued to run. Ashara’s long dress was ruined at the bottom and her dark locks dishevelled, but she did not care; she was so close.

“Get back here!”

The voice of her attacker had been closer than she thought, and the desperation only pushed her faster.

All she needed was to make the jump, a final leap and pray to whichever god might listen that she’d make it to Arthur without too much damage.

“Ah!” Ashara yelled out.

She descended to the ground and scraped along her arm. She had missed the leap to the cobbled entrance of the tower.

“No, no, no!” she panicked, scrambling to get up.

She pushed up and hissed out in pain as she stumbled to rise. She had been so close.

Igon, the wispy thin man, reached her with a sinister look in his grey eyes.

“Well, well, my lady, will you not allow me to escort you the rest of the way?”

Ashara attempted to breathe deeply, holding back her tears. She wouldn't let him see her fear. She would fight to the bloody end.

Again, she attempted to scream, with only a hollow strangled sound escaping her throat.

Igon grabbed her arm and yank her up and chuckled at her.

“You won’t tell anybody about this, now will you? You wouldn’t want everyone to know what a little whore you are...”

Ashara gritted her teeth, calmed her breathing, and as he stared at her in triumph, she head-butted him as hard she could, just like Arthur taught her; temporarily stunning him.

_Crack._

Quicker than she had time to process she heard another loud crack.

_Crack._

Ashara was seven the first time she saw anything die, and now, aged ten and two, would be the first time she watched a man die.

She heard the snap of his bones as a blade sliced through his chest. He collapsed to the ground with his grey eyes still open staring up at her.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she still believed Arthur was coming to save her, and yet when she looked up at her rescuer, she was both relieved and devastated to not see her brother.

Prince Oberyn stood above Igon with his long spear embedded into his chest. Just meters from him, stood Princess Elia, with concern in her expression.

Oberyn stood a moment longer, then turned back toward Ashara. She sucked in a breath and felt her heart race, heard her blood pumping through her veins louder than the drums in the distance.

“Elia said she heard something; did he... did he –” He failed to find the words and looked to Elia for aide.

Ashara’s breathing became erratic, and she struggled for air as an all-consuming constricting terror overcame her.

“We are not going to hurt you.” Oberyn spoke backing away from her ever increasingly panicked form.

Her eyes found the dead grey ones once more.

She felt warm tears falling down her face, not aware they were mixing with the blood from the gash on her forehead.

“Oh lovely child, cast your pretty eyes away from such a monster.”

Now it was Princess Elia that spoke, edging forward and offering her hand.

She watched the Princess, gaze flitting across her face in concern. Although she had grown to care for the Martell’s, Igon too was once a kind stranger.

However, the dark-skinned maiden held no menace, no malice, no ill intent in her dark eyes. Still, Ashara kept her guard.

Ashara took the upturned hand and allowed herself to be guided away from the body on the ground. Within a few steps, her legs gave out, still recovering from her escape. She slipped down at the wall of the passage entrance. 

The princess before her slowly lowered herself to eye level, smiling softly. She began reaching towards Ashara’s bleeding wounds, and as she attempted to jerk it away, the elder girl caught her arm gently.

“I will not hurt you, hold still,” she said tenderly, her eyes attempting to reassure Ashara, before focusing back at her injuries.

“Your forehead... May I?”

Ashara only watched, still shellshocked from the events from moments ago. She wanted to run, to flee, but in the Elia’s eyes, there was only kindness and care.

It took her several moments, but she nodded curtly, allowing her closer. Elia extended her hands and ripped her own dress for a cloth to wipe away at the blood.

Ashara breathed in deeply as she felt the somewhat therapeutic sting of having her wound attended to. She watched Elia with curiosity, and there was a quiet storm brewing behind her eyes, and yet, still gentleness in her touch.

Elia finally sat back on her knees, looking at Ashara fondly.

“I think I can guess what happened here, but I do not want to presume, would you be able to tell me?” she whispered slowly, forcing the young girl to focus.

“He- he, tried.. tried to – he, _hurt_ me.”

At the reminder, Ashara’s eyes again found the grey ones of her attacker and full force she felt like she was drowning.

Revelry and merriment rose relentlessly from Dawn’s Hall nearby and suddenly all she could hear were the drums all over again.

_Da, Da, Da, Dum. Da, Da, Da, Dum. Da, Da, Da, Dum. DA,DA,DA, DUM._

“I, I, I – want my brother! I want my mother!” She screamed panicking.

She felt a storm of tears build and she was powerless to stop them. Her arms flung around Elia and she buried her face away from the _dead_ watching eyes.

“It is okay my sweet, I’m here to help you. You’re safe now.”

The words made Ashara sob deeper.

Eventually, she felt herself rise off the ground, peering up she saw Oberyn cradling her guided by his sister. Her hand held tightly in Elia’s as they walked.

It was not until the drums were a faint distant sound and the Prince gently lowered her to a comforter, she even realised they had not headed to the celebrations. They were in Starfire tower, in the Princess and Prince consorts chambers.

_Da, Da, Da, Dum. Da, Da, Da, Dum. Da, Da, Da, Dum._

Ashara heard footsteps hurriedly approach and turned to see Princess Furiosa. Her dark eyes melted, and she smiled sadly, heartbreakingly, at Ashara.

“Hello, my dear. You are safe now. You're with family.” She whispered softly.

Princess Furiosa reached a hand out to Ashara’s face, and the frightened girl flinched slightly as she felt her cheek caressed affectionately.

Ashara wondered what might happen now. Would she outrun the drums bringing the terrible memory to the forefront of her mind, would there be justice for a hurt child, and a dead man? Would she ever stop hearing those deafening drums?

_Da, Da, Da, Dum. Da, Da, Da, Dum. Da, Da, Da, Dum._

After a few moments, Elia explained what happened. The aftermath bought Ashara’s mind to the attack. It bought her mind to the loudness of the drumbeat, to the way her scream had drowned in her throat, to the grey eyes that had been sweet, then sinister, then slain.

“We are not going to hurt you,” Elia repeated, instantly calming her.

Princess Furiosa glanced at Elia with a solemn smile, then to Oberyn.

“Fetch Lady Dayne, no one else, you understand?” Princess Furiosa instructed.

Ashara heard the creek of the door and a pause.

“Is she well?” Prince Oberyn had a softness in his voice that reminded her so much of her own brother, she wanted to cry again.

Arthur would make her feel better, she was sure.

Ashara finally looked out in front of her, her arms and body still wrapped around Elia. She noticed Elia watching her closely with a faint smile and surety in her gaze.

“Yes, she will be.”

Elia’s arms tightened around her protectively, and for some reason Ashara believed her.

Time passed seemingly slowly, the events of her attack torturing her mind.

Eventually, Lady Alyssa appeared looking the angriest Ashara had ever seen her. So much so, Ashara hesitated before she leapt into her arms.

It had been a long time since her mother was affectionate with her, not since long before Arthur returned home. She had come back to life somewhat with Arthur’s arrival. With her duty as host and Lady of the House motivating her. Yet, Ashara had not really seen the warm woman she remembered from her youngest years. So, to be in her arms again, she revelled at the feeling.

“What has happened?” 

It was Princess Elia who explained what occurred, for Ashara’s voice caught like a fish in a hook, when her Lady mother asked.

There was silence for so long Ashara thought her mother must have not heard.

Instead, Lady Alyssa placed her down and began inspecting her. She pulled at her ripped robes and checked her injuries briefly.

When she did speak, Ashara wished she had never spoken at all.

“That is the nature of men, my lady. You were going to learn it sooner or later.” Her mother spoke in the voice which belonged to Lady Dayne. It was the same distant coldness which she spoke to Ser Waters with, the one which could not be challenged.

Ashara’s stomach swirled at her words.

“That is _not_ the nature of all men. What happen– ”

“ _Nothing_ happened.” Lady Dayne interrupted the Princess Furiosa.

Ashara was certain she physically heard her ribs crack from the explosion of heartbreak in her chest.

“Ashara, did he rape you?”

The question was so direct she felt it go through her.

She was old enough to know what it was, and he may not have made it that far, but she still felt violated.

“He- he...” Again, she did not have the words.

“Cousin, have sense –”

“See, _nothing_ happened.”

Furiosa looked dangerously close to hitting her lady mother.

“Have I made myself understood?” Lady Dayne asked rhetorically.

“Do not do this.” The Princess warned.

“This is not your domain Princess.”

The Purple Lady’s violet eyes were enraged and it scared Ashara, so much that she did not even attempt to protest.

Disappointment seeped into every cell of her body.

“Now, Prince Oberyn, you will take my guards to the body. It will be disposed of, thrown into the river, and _none_ of this will ever be spoken of again.” Lady Dayne spoke coldly.

Oberyn looked to his mother and the Princess nodded before he followed with his own acknowledgement and left the chambers.

The silence was palpable and tense.

“You are making a mistake.” Princess Furiosa pleaded.

“Am I?” Lady Dayne spat out, eyes wide.

The two women stared at each other, having a silent conversation, only they could understand. Whatever argument it was, Ashara’s mother won, as the Princess tutted, shook her head, and turned away.

Lady Dayne faced her.

“Ashara...”

She looked up at Lady Dayne; cold, distant, unloving, all the things she once could never have associated with her laughing mother.

“You will not tell Ser Waters or your brothers about any of this, do you understand me?”

Her mother sought to silence her. Her voice was being taken away. It was the one thing her father told her never to compromise. 

_Never be silenced, for the world is lonely without a voice._

“Why?” Ashara tried, determined to use her voice.

“Why! Why! You and your brother so alike. Questioning all that I command. I have decreed it, and so it _will_ be followed.” Lady Dayne barked with a ferocity that even shocked Princess Furiosa.

“But _why_?” Her voice shook but she could not forget her father’s words.

Her mother glared at her, nostrils flaring with anger, as if any of it was Ashara’s fault.

“Because you would bring yourself and this house shame. If this became public knowledge, you would never find love nor wed...”

She was frozen as she double-checked for seriousness in her mother’s expression. She saw nothing short of revulsion on her face, almost hatred, and Ashara felt her face reddened with chagrin. 

“...this is the way of the world.”

The cruel words were soaked into her young mind and it made her head spin. She finally understood why silence was easier than speaking up. To express all one was, came at price. It would be lonelier still to use her voice.

“What happened?” Lady Dayne tested.

Violet eyes intensely held her gaze, glistening with tears.

“Nothing happened.” Ashara repeated.

All ideas of her once loving mother were shattered then. All illusions of a beautiful reality were destroyed.

For so long, Ashara blamed a past she didn’t know about for her mother’s melancholy. So, as a young child, she tried to be more loveable, more endearing, more servile. She believed herself a relief valve on her mother’s demons. Mistakenly, she expected that when the time came, her mother would be her relief. How wrong she was.

“If that is what you so wish, _Lady Dayne_.” Princess Furiosa spat out her name like a bad taste in her mouth.

“I love my daughter. You know I am only protecting her.”

It did not feel like protection nor did it feel like love.

Love had once been her mother’s smile, kind words and tight hugs. Now, love was corrupted. Her mother’s love was neglectful. Ashara wondered if she had ever truly loved her as she said; or if she loved what she could do for her.

As she stared up at her beautiful mother, sad violet eyes, she felt nothing but pure hatred.


	13. Protection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess Elia deals with a shaken Ashara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

** Protection **

There were two things in life Princess Elia Martell wanted above all else. First, children, as many as her body would allow. Sweet, hysterical, mischievous, joyful, difficult; she did not care how they would be; only that she could love them, and they could love her.

Second, to travel across Dorne and know her land most intimately. To understand every little custom, achievement and disappointment in great kingdom Nymeria had set her sights to and assimilated into. Many of the visitors that came to Sunspear over the years, spoke of the freedoms, opportunity and possibilities of Dorne. She wished to truly comprehend the meaning of it.

She supposed her two greatest wants were due to her unpredictable health, which always made her feel like she was living her life against a sundial. Therefore, she craved to experience all she could, and to feel every moment of her life, the good, the bad and the ugly; for as long as it lasted. Although, being the only daughter to the ruling Princess of Dorne, she could not be as free as Oberyn perhaps, but still she would take what she could.

So, when her health permitted, and her mother had spoken of potential betrothals and journeys across Westeros, Elia praised the Seven for it. She was ecstatic to journey out of Sunspear, to see the land which her family ruled, to meet the people which were _her_ people. She didn’t care that Oberyn would likely torment each suitor that came. Before they arrived at their first destination, he had already put her off her potentially intended; Lord Aethan Dayne, the future Lord of Starfall was rumoured to be more Northman than Dornish, and of Dorne, much like Doran. Although she loved her elder brother, she rather hoped for someone with more of Oberyn’s wildness.

Starfall felt more like a homecoming than a visit to a foreign island. Yet, it was not necessarily the extraordinarily beautiful high tower castle, nor was it the welcoming joyous people that made her feel this way.

No, it was the sweet child with mischievous laughing amethyst eyes that captured her. Ashara Dayne had sparkling expressive eyes that adorned her extraordinarily pretty golden face, and long hair that tumbled over her shoulders like a fountain of molten obsidian. If her outside beauty was mesmerising, her inside light was entirely captivating. They were fast friends, and something in Elia’s very core felt the need to protect her.

Thus, when they stumbled upon the scene of her attack, it had been Elia’s words which set Oberyn to purpose. There was little that truly infuriated her, she was unlike Oberyn, who shared their mother’s temper. However, when it came to children, even as frail as she could be, Elia could rage as hot as the sun itself.

She wanted to scream at the way Lady Dayne handled the frightened girl. Silencing her and chalking off her attack as men’s nature did nothing to alleviate her trauma.

Elia was more than happy to escort and assist her to her bedchambers so she could change robes and prepare for the festivities Lady Dayne insisted she still attend.

“I hope you know what you are doing.” Oberyn spoke, after she requested he guard the door.

It was a question which needed no answer. Elia would protect this girl with everything in her power, especially after her mother had failed so tremendously at it.

When Elia re-joined her, Ashara was seated in her bathing unit with her arms wrapped around her knees. Just where she had left her.

Her amethyst eyes found Elia’s the moment she slipped back inside.

For a long while, neither girl spoke. Eventually, Elia busied herself with disposing soiled water from the bucket and washing out her hands and face in another.

In Elia’s periphery, she could see the young girl had lost that haunted pellucid look which had been covering her eyes like glass. Ashara had almost bolted when Elia ushered her into the water, anger akin to a furious storm getting the better of her. In the end, after Elia’s hushed words of comfort, she consented.

However, she clearly had not been doing much bathing. There were still splatters of blood across her forehead and the bridge of her celestial nose, like freckles.

Elia noticed a low-standing stool near the vanity, which she carried over beside the tub. Ashara adverted her eyes immediately and in that action her trauma was evident; wracked with uncertainty and doubt. Elia pried the abandoned cloth from Ashara’s hand, and as gentle as possible, she cupped her jaw and turned her face toward her.

As she dabbed at the spots of crimson, cleaning away both blood and tears, Elia spoke the words she believed Lady Dayne should have spoken.

“The man...” she began, firmly but gently.

Ashara winced, a barely perceptible twitch in her cheek. Elia thought she might not respond but then she nodded and so she continued.

“...What he did to you was monstrous. He deserved to die, that is the closest to justice you can get. Yet, if it is not enough, my mother can make arrangements to find out why he was so emboldened to hurt you should you want it.”

Ashara’s gazed turned hard and wary.

Elia did not know what the right words were, did not know what she would want in her situation, but she knew she needed to protect her. It was not solely her duty as princess, but she _wanted_ to. 

The silence stretched as Ashara considered her words.

“Nothing happened.” Ashara eventually spoke, repeating Lady Dayne’s command. 

Although it broke her heart, Elia reassured her anyway.

“If that is what _you_ wish.”

They lapsed back into silence.

Elia continued to wipe along her skin, cleaning the scrapes at her arm, ridding the evidence of her attack. Elia dabbed at her face until it was all clean angles and shadows, watched her expression shift from dull hardness to terrifying vulnerability.

Her heart broke when Ashara reached out her hand for her own.

“How do you feel, sweet child?” Elia wondered. She stroked her skin comfortingly.

“No longer like a child.”

There was no anger in the words, just resigned truth.

“I am here to listen, if you wish to talk to me...”

Her touch remained faint and unobtrusive. “...I would like you to talk to me.”

Her answer never came.

Elia discovered that House Dayne dealt with tragedy in suffocating silence. The Dayne’s of Starfall were nothing like Elia’s loud home, where all issues and grievances were laid out open regardless of whether they knew how to deal with it.

Ashara’s gaze dropped and, in the action, it was not hard to see the self-reproach and loathing seeping back into.

Immediately, Elia grabbed both Ashara’s hands, falling to her knees beside the tub and bringing their eyes together once more.

“Ashara... as your Princess, and as your friend, I will protect you in every way I have the power to. No one will ever touch you again.”

Where she expected no response, instead a timorous whisper came. “Why?”

“My sweet, you deserve it.”

In the stillness of room, Elia stretched across to kiss her forehead delicately.

Elia thought she saw a small nod of acknowledgement, alongside a blush staining golden cheeks. With her head bowed like that, her hair all in her face, Elia was heartbroken at just how much she looked her true age; ten and two, so very _young._

“I would like you to come stay with us in Sunspear...” Elia proposed.

Amethyst eyes widened. It pained Elia to see Ashara had already lost faith in people. Although, it only made her more determined to rebuild trust, at least with Ashara and the Martell’s, so that she might never be silenced again.

“...I understand if you are hesitant or even if you do not want to leave here at all, after everything...”

She watched her eyes so that Ashara comprehended just how serious she was.

“...but I meant what I said, I vow to protect you. At my home, it is a place for children to be children. We do not hurt little girls in Sunspear. If you want, you could join us.”

Ashara looked at her as if Elia had just offered her the sun.

Elia reached for Ashara just as Ashara did the same, the small girl gripping her as if her life depended on it.

“Thank you for saving me.” She whispered into her shoulder.

Some minutes later, Oberyn knocked informing her they were to get ready.

“Come...” Elia said, standing.

“...We must get you out of here for the Sword of the Morning’s celebrations. I am sure he is so very excited to see you debut your talents for his victory.”

Something dark passed across her eyes, and Elia wondered if words would follow, but it drifted almost as quickly as it came.


	14. No Ordinary Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur deals with the fall out of his decisions in the arena.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur

** No Ordinary Knight **

When Arthur imagined himself Sword of the Morning as a child, he envisioned himself ten foot tall. He visualised fighting in great wars, saving captured maidens, murdering men that might dishonour his house; as the heroic knights in the old tales.

Yet, victory was not as he imagined. Whilst he was overjoyed with his achievement there was something which gnawed at him inside. He was not taller, nor did he feel invincible. Particularly, when Ser Lycian called his actions in the arena cowardice, just moments before his celebrations.

To be proven worthy did not ease his anxieties. If anything, the mantle weighed him down with the responsibility of it. He could never make a mistake and was expected to live his life as not only the truest knight but also the ideal man. He questioned how he, not even a man grown, could manage the duty of protecting his house.

He came to question his readiness no more than a mere few hours after his victory. He had been on his way to meet Ashara when a guard, Igon, informed him his lady mother required his presence in the library. Thus, he sent Igon to retrieve Ashara in his stead.

“What is it mother?”

“A decision has been made _Ser_ Arthur...”

She spoke in that tone he recognised as Lady Dayne, head of the House, not Lady Alyssa his mother.

“And what is the decision?”

Arthur feared it might be to return to Driftmark, despite Ser Lewyn’s offer to mentor him in King’s Landing.

“...I have banished Vorian from Starfall, and with Lord Derrik’s approval, he will no longer have any claim to High Hermitage.”

immediately, in his mind, the vow he made to his cousin in the arena rang loudly.

‘ _We will rise as brothers... I vow to always treat and recognise you as my equal_.’

Arthur understood that if he watched him be cast away, simply for the shame of surrender, it would break his vow.

“Why?”

Lady Dayne rarely gave explanations for her decisions, but despite the annoyance that flitted across her face, she answered.

“We Dornish do not surrender,” she began.

Dorne was a proud and unconquered kingdom. Since Nymeria’s arrival, the people of Dorne united and became one in celebration of their mixed heritage of First Men, Andal and Rhoynar origins. The people of Dorne never surrendered. Not Meria Martell when Rhaenys Targaryen flew her dragon Meraxes to Sunspear; nor the smallfolk rebels in King Daeron I Targaryen’s failed conquest; and certainly no Dayne, not since King Vorian Dayne, the Sword of the Evening, last King of the Torrentine, was sent to the wall by Nymeria.

“I thought long and hard about what you did. You spared him, and that was a mistake...”

Of all the things Arthur was unsure about, he was firm in his decision to show Vorian mercy, he was kin.

“...So, I satisfied myself that he would be a threat to you. As long as he remains, he will resent you for it, and plot against you, so that he might take up _your_ title...”

In Driftmark, Arthur had learnt that envy was a powerful motivator. However, he had seen in his cousins eyes an understanding that no other could comprehend. They were bonded as brothers, not just by blood, but by Dawn. Vorian would not betray him, not when he had sworn to recognise him as his equal. 

“...So, I cast out one son of Dayne to save the other.”

Each word Lady Dayne spoke stung, fuelling a fire that burned inside of him. There was a darkness in her which shook him, and something swirling in her violet irises revealed that she would have killed Vorian if the ramifications were not so great. This started Arthur’s mind down a dangerous path. 

“You do not yet understand the world. People who are ambitious, forever remain as such; and to be in someone else’s shadow can drive a person to do unimaginable things.” She explained.

“Is that what you did mother?!”

All his rage came out faster than wildfire and just as destructive. It consumed all that he was, and he could not hold back his words.

“Is that what happened to your lady mother and her children, you could not bear to be in their shadow?”

His fists clenched and he slammed them down onto the table between them, making her wince in surprise. 

“Tell me, is that how it happened!”

He hated that his mother put him into this position. Made him an oathbreaker before he even the chance to prove his choices correct. 

The slap that came was not unexpected. It was as loud as a clap and stung his face. Despite her actions, his mother looked horrified.

“You are not a boy anymore!”

Her hand struck him again.

“You seem to have forgotten that you are Sword of the Morning now...”

She grabbed his chin tightly, forcing his gaze to her.

“...You cannot be like an ordinary knight, must not behave or have feelings like an ordinary knight. Sword of the Morning must be prepared to do the most terrible things in the name of his family; things against all conscience if he wants to survive and fulfil his duty.”

He stared at her hard with narrowed blazing eyes.

“Have you considered that the new dawn I might bring to this _shit_ world could be mercy?” He challenged.

She was silent a long while and he was almost sure she would not respond, until she did.

“This _is_ mercy.”

She confirmed everything he knew already. Vorian would be dead if Lady Dayne could have it her way.

“Not the Sword of the Morning’s mercy though is it.” He asked rhetorically.

“I did what is best for you.”

“Lady Dayne –”

From the door came Prince Oberyn, who immediately noticed the tense atmosphere, and halted whatever had been on the tip of his tongue.

“May I be dismissed, Lady Dayne?”

He barely waited for her approval before he stormed out in pursuit of Vorian.

When he located Vorian, Arthur did not recognise him. He had an odd gait that was slightly lurching as he went, and when he came into full view, Arthur’s heart dropped. His face was near grotesque; purple bruises, swollen green eyes, and a horrific wound that ran from lip to ear; leaving him with a permanent eerie court jester grin.

“I did not want _this,_ ” he began struggling to find the correct words. 

On impulse he reached out and felt foolish knowing Vorian was already injured both in body and spirit, and his hands would be of no comfort now.

“You are my kin, my _brother_... I didn’t want this.” Arthur confessed.

He looked up at him defeated, in every sense of the word.

“I suppose I know why she did it. People would always question you if I remained. I would always pose a threat to the Sword of the Morning.”

“I don’t believe that.” Arthur answered instantly.

Vorian released a gruff laugh, which was unsettling with his imposing scar.

“And yet you are not here to me to tell me how you raised hell and persuaded your lady mother to revoke her decision.”

Although his mother left him out of her decisions, his inaction meant that he was complicit and that he had broken his oath. 

“We will never be equal now.” It was clear that Vorian believed him an oathbreaker too.

 _You are my equal._ The words on the tip of Arthur’s tongue died in their ascent.

“She has not taken your name from you, that will always belong to you.” He said instead.

“What is a name without a birth right or anything to inherit?”

Arthur wondered, looking into bloodshot emerald eyes, if his mother had not created the very monster she was trying to avoid.

“You were never much interested in ruling, the battlefield is your domain...”

Growing up alongside one another, it was dreams of Dawn which bonded the two Daynes. While Aethan had been proficient with swordsmanship, he never wanted Dawn as Arthur and Vorian did.

“...I suppose your father might finally make Dyanna a _true_ Dayne.”

Vorian sighed but did not protest.

“Yes, she deserves it, wants it more than I, even better suited to rule having learnt from the _best_.”

Arthur was so vexed with his mother he did not take offence at the quip.

“I am truly sorry that I’ve failed you... our House has failed you.” Arthur admitted.

“Perhaps we care too much for that... _our_ House.”

Watching Vorian now, Arthur pondered if they both might have been better off if the duel had ended in death and the ascension of a star. 

“What if I came with you?”

The words had already left his lips before he even realised what he whispered.

Again, he gave him that unnerving smile. Although, the longer he watched, he noticed Vorian was ambivalent to the idea.

“I have to go, and more importantly, you have to stay. It is the Gods mandate.”

He was right, and Arthur knew it.

“Where will you go?”

He shrugged, looking completely lost.

“What if I deny Ser Lewyn’s offer, ask him to take you instead.”

The look he gave told him how stupid the idea was. Yet, he had to try something, _anything_.

“I will go where the Gods lead me.”

A long silence settled between them and Vorian looked to his bags, somehow both itching to go and wanting to stay.

In the quiet, Arthur resolved to show him that he would always treat and recognise Vorian as his equal, as he pledged on the sands of the arena.

“Vorian...”

Arthur approached, gently he wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close.

“...because of what has happened here, people, like Lady Dayne, will treat you less than, underestimate you...”

He remembered his own denigrating experiences in Driftmark; of being told he was unworthy, weak and inferior. If he could help it, he would never allow anyone else to feel as he did.

“...never let that happen, make them pay for it. Be _ruthless_ brother.”

He backed away a little and resolved lilac eyes met confused emerald ones.

“You are formidable. I know you will do and become something great. Let that be your vengeance and one day the entire realm, from Dorne to beyond the North, will recognise the great knight that is _as_ worthy as Sword of the Morning.”

They were as brothers, for better or worse now. That bond, a sort of union of souls, a feeling that to lose the other would be worse than death. Arthur hoped his words would sustain him in the unknown future he walked toward. He prayed, that one day, their paths might converge.

They walked to the castle gate in silence. There was not a single other person there to watch a son of Dayne depart.

Arthur handed Vorian the helm Aethan gifted him.

“My brother gave it to me, and now I want you to have it. You will always be my kin.”

Vorian was surprised but held onto it like a lifeline.

He set off down the long bridge and Arthur wanted to cry, but he had to remain strong.

“Little Art?”

Arthur looked up.

“You are a good man, don’t allow anyone to ever use it against you.”

He knew he had failed his cousin as he watched him walk away from Starfall, banished from the home of their ancestors.

When Arthur returned to the celebratory feast, it made his stomach turn to listen to his father’s speech.

“First, I wish to thank the Seven for the coming of another Dayne, for my Lady wife is with child again...”

Despite the momentary joy which spread through Arthur, the thought of another brother or sister to protect made him feel burdened. Furthermore, he could not bear to look at his mother with the image of Vorian walking away still so fresh in his mind.

“Lastly, to my son. Precious few of us ever get to reach our destinies; yet you have achieved yours at such a young age. You conducted yourself with dignity and honour. You are a man now. Your wins are all of ours...”

 _Yet, the loses would be his own_ , he thought. 

“...We are proud of you. _I_ am proud of you... and since the strongest steel is forged of the hottest fires; and no waters, beast, sword or spear could overcome you in your battles; you will now be known as Arthur _Steelstar_ , Sword of the Morning.”

“Hail Arthur Steelstar!” A chorus of cheers erupted leading into the rest of the celebrations.

The irony was not lost on the young Dayne in that he was being celebrated as the ordained defender of Dorne, and had already failed in his duty, to uphold the very first oath to his kin, to the son other son of Dayne. If something foreboding prickled in his chest, he buried it deep down, in goblet after goblet of Dornish wine.

Victory was nothing at all like Arthur had imagined.


	15. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara deals with the fallout of the Sword of the Morning's ascension.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

Eventually, Ashara’s father and brothers discovered the very thing Lady Alyssa demanded she keep to herself. It had not been intentional, only, each night, when darkness came, she suffered with horrific night terrors in which her screams awoke all in the vicinity of her bedchambers.

Then, one particular night, as her mind conjured up the sounds of drums, waking her from restless slumber, perturbed, she let out a scream wrought in agony just when Arthur and Ser Waters bound into her chambers.

She was not quick enough to hide the soaked bedding or shoo away the vivid apparitions which tormented her, as she had nights previous. Her mouth was still open in a wide ‘ _O’_ shape, although no sound came, and when she calmed somewhat, she realised the wreck she created in her wake; scratches across her arms, lacerations embedded into the skin of her bed companion, Wylla.

In the end, Ser Waters comprehended with one look; she saw it in the way the blood drained from his face, and his eyes seemed to look more haunted than ever before. 

Arthur took longer, confused by her behaviour and their father’s silent rage.

“What has happened?” Arthur panicked.

He looked between them all, and none could vocalise the words to make him understand.

“Ashara Dayne, you tell me right now.” He commanded, in a tone every bit their mother.

“ _Please_ stop,” she pleaded, all but ready to fall to her knees and beg.

She closed her eyes tightly as her head spun and slipped into blackness. She wanted to scream or run but all she could do was freeze. Sounds that were near, like Arthur’s tearful pleas, felt far away. In the end, all she could hear, as she lay paralysed on her wet bed, was the rhythm of the drums of that terrible night. 

_Da, Da, Da, Dum. DA,DA,DA, DUM._

It was her father who called Ashara back to herself. His sea-blue eyes never leaving her own as he told her to, “breathe.”

On the other side sat Arthur, a wreck, forehead pressed against her temple whispering pleas of comfort.

“Asha, I beg of you, let me chase away these dark clouds. Tell me who has done this to you and let me see them to their end.”

Eventually, she whispered out what her mother had forbidden her to voice. Once the first word came, the rest followed so quickly after, she realised that subconsciously she had been desperate to speak them before then.

For a while, they all remained silent, attempting to process in the wake of her revelation.

Arthur was destroyed, shaking his head, in near disbelief and opening his mouth repeatedly like a dying fish.

“But – but, I... he...” The words escaped him. 

“...I sent ~~Igon~~ _him_ to find you – it was _me_.”

His confession made her want to vomit.

He verbalised something she had desperately attempted not to think since it happened. She tried to drown out the dark thought as she danced at his celebrations, she endeavoured to drive it away in the darkness of night with her shrieks.

“No...” she croaked out.

Her greatest pain could not be because of her brother; her perfect, kind, loving Arthur.

“Where were you that was more important than your sister?” Ser Waters snapped.

As Ashara looked to her father, she noticed a growing fury in him which frightened her. He visibly shook, and in his eyes, a fire burnt so hot she could scarcely look at him for fear of burning.

“I was with Lady Dayne.”

Ser Waters sighed deeply, tiredly.

“Ser Arthur.”

Arthur looked up with an expression almost as broken as Ashara felt.

“Give her your sword.” He commanded.

Arthur was bewildered and Ashara watched curiously.

“Dawn?”

Ser Waters grabbed him by the front of his tunic, hatred burning in his eyes.

Out of instinct Ashara moved to protect her brother but she stilled her hand when her thoughts persisted.

_Where was the Sword of the Morning when she screamed out for him?_

“You are not worthy of this sword. You are not worthy of the title...”

Their father ripped the scabbard and sword from his waist and threw it to Ashara’s feet.

“... and until you are, until Ashara _decides_ you are, you shall not wield it.” He spat out the words like poison.

“Your only duty is to your sister.”

Ashara felt guilt swirl at the pit of her stomach. A part of her knew this was not Arthur’s fault, any more than it had been Ser Waters fault when Arthur faced abuse at the hands of the Velaryon’s. He could not have known. Yet, a louder more destructive part of her _needed_ someone to blame, someone to take out her anger on.

Arthur had forgiven their father, but Arthur had always been a better person than her.

So, to her shame, Ashara kept silent. 

“But it is _my_ sword. I proved myself.” There was no heat in his voice, as if his heart ceased beating.

“It is just a sword.” Ser Waters interrupted.

It was near blasphemy. Ser Waters had been a major part in Arthur’s aspirations for Dawn. To hear him now, was like the world was turned upside down. Nothing would ever be the same again.

“It _is_ just a sword.” Ashara agreed.

The statement which flew from her mouth, she never imagined she would think, let alone say out loud. She knew instantly from the look in Arthur’s stormy eyes that they pierced him deeper than any sword ever could. Ashara dreaded what _her words_ would bring about next.

“Last of all, you will send a raven to King’s Landing and notify Ser Lewyn that you are not in a place to accept his offer at this time.”

For the first time, Ashara suddenly feared if her mother was right all along. Her words had brought shame to her House; a shame which would rip out Arthur’s future from under him.

“Where were _YOU_ father, when your daughter was crying out for help? What is your punishment for failing?” Arthur exploded with unrestrained fury.

The two stared each other down, nostrils flaring, and jaws clenched.

“We all failed... some of us more than others.” He admitted.

Something in his voice told her he did not truly mean Arthur. He resigned at the accusation, and in the end, he set his son down.

“Arthur, what is your duty?” Ser Waters asked.

Her brother looked at her for the first time since she revealed what happened. She watched his heart break under her gaze.

“My duty is to my sister, before all else, always.”

Ser Waters nodded before he began to exit the room.

“Never fail her again.”

There was a dark look in his eyes which worried Ashara, and she could see it put the fear of the Gods in her brother too.

That night, their father exploded, like uncontrollable dragon fire. They heard him storm to Lady Dayne’s chambers and raised hell. His voice was as booming as his Velaryon kin, and the walls shook with the strength of his rage.

Ashara heard the clashes and bangs of broken things, she heard the yells and screams of her mother and father. It was more violent than the most frightful of storms. Strangely, she found some peace in her father’s ferocity for that was all she had felt inside since the moment Igon’s hand clasped around her wrist. Thus, a romance with rage was borne inside a broken star.

The momentary relief lasted for just that long, a moment. For her father, the Silent Knight, disappeared with silence on his lips before the rise of dawn.

When she asked her mother of his absence days later, she said he was to be forgotten and a declaration like that was intended to be followed. 

And so, Starfall continued on without Ser Waters as if he never existed at all. The aftermath of the events of the Starborn Tournament meant their great home lost its warmth. Ashara’s voice brought about silence to the once vibrant and lively castle. They all; Ashara, Arthur, Lady Alyssa and even Aethan existed as shadows, circling one another in careful distance. Joy was gone, and so was love.

Despite being the most affect by Ser Waters absence, Aethan took up where he left, for them all. His presence was constant and she managed to find some comfort in his care. 

Arthur watched over her closely, although this only proved to drive a wedge between them. He was the only one that noticed that long after her wounds healed her mind was still shattered. He saw what she tried to hide, wearing grimace-like smiles, whenever he asked of her health.

He attempted to bridge the gap with reassuring words. Instead, it only overwhelmed her. She could not stand his voice. Once he had used it to charm her with sweet words and wielded it to whisper mischievous plans into her ear whilst they gazed the stars. _Once_ , it had filled her with love, with protection. Now, she wondered how someone she loved so much had managed to disappoint her so completely?

She avoided thinking too deeply about her brother’s involvement in what had happened for she knew the ugliness which would arise.

Nonetheless, each morning she found him resting at the door of her bedchambers with his fathers abandoned sword _Mercy_ in his lap, having taken their father’s words as gospel. It bought some ease to her mind on the many nights she woke from vivid night terrors, to see him running in ready to fend off whatever came. If nothing else, she appreciated him for that. 

However, the rift between Ashara and Arthur was the worst of all that had happened. Arthur’s guilt was in his every move and Ashara’s shame kept her distant. They were not alone but they were _lonely._

Ashara came to realise that survival was more than the persistence of the flesh. Long after her tears dried and her abrasions healed, her sense of self remained in tatters. She felt like a shell of what she once was, unable to find her way back.

Each day became a challenge, where she did not dwell in the past or envision the future. She simply existed.

Yet, she could tell her loved ones wanted her back. They wanted the same laughing child they loved before, the girl who brought them moonlight. However, she could not articulate that the light had been stolen from her. At Aethan’s request, the maesters prescribed potions, the Red Priestess listened and counselled. But she came to accept she would forever be a different person. This new person would be more cautious, more fearful, less trusting. She would be reliant on herself, because she understood now that no one could protect her, not truly. Although, when she thought to the Martell’s, to Elia, she wondered if they could.

Unsurprisingly, Lady Alyssa remained distant. Instead, she focused primarily on the pending arrival of her new child. Where Ashara once begged her mother for another child, pleaded to be a protector as her brothers had been to her; now, the thought of children made her nauseous.

She could not fathom why Lady Alyssa would want to bring another child into the world when she had failed so badly at protecting the ones she already bore.

When the despondency became intolerable, Ashara came to a decision. She wanted to run away from the sound of drums which haunted her, to flee from the unloving walls of Starfall; she wished to give her family a chance at joy again. More than anything, she craved to find a life for herself, to live her own way. Therefore, one afternoon, she sought out her Lady mother.

Lady Dayne had been confined to her quarters for many moons, as her pregnancy became more arduous.

When Ashara entered, she noticed the protruding belly and just how long it had been since she last saw her mother, and guilt settled in the pit of her core. She felt like she was abandoning this poor child, who would already be starting off with less than. She hoped it would be a boy because the thought of a little girl vulnerable to suffering made her livid.

Despite the complicated feelings she had about her mother, she still hoped that the new babe would bring light to her violet eyes as she once had.

When she met Lady Alyssa’s gaze, she recognised the same resentful expression she had worn since Ser Waters confronted her. From that moment onward, they looked at one another with nothing but repulsion. Ashara’s words resulted in Arthur’s refusal to ascend to the position he was moulded for, Ser Water’s abandoned them, and she was almost sure her mother hated her for being soiled and unruly.

“Lady Dayne, I have changed my mind, I wish to accept the Princess’ offer and foster in Sunspear.”

Ashara watched a variety of emotions fall across her mother’s beautiful features. Her rich russet skin paled as surprise, deliberation and sadness flushed through her. In the end, her thick pouty lips downturned in acceptance.

“As you wish Ashara. A raven shall be sent to Sunspear to expect your arrival.”

She could have sworn there was heartbreak in her tone.

“What of your guardian, Arthur Steelstar... You know he will refuse to remain without you.”

Ashara considered the question of her brother long before she knocked at Lady Dayne’s bedchambers. She and Arthur were chained together by their unconditional love for one another. So, she could not send him away no matter how much his presence irked her.

Days prior, Arthur found her crying in a dark corner with wide eyes and pulled her back from her nightmares, spoke to her as if he were calling her from another realm, despite the chasm yawning between them. That night, he cried too and begged upon his knees for forgiveness.

_‘My sword is yours, sister. It is yours to elevate me when I am worthy of it... not because Ser Waters commanded it but because I want to. I will never betray you again and will put you before all others.’_

Thus, she was his burden, and he was her obligation. Although she could not stand him so close, she knew eventually her hand would reach out for him again, and he would be there waiting.

“In spite of all that has happened, he is my brother and I still care for him. If he has decided that his place is beside me, then I will not stop him.”

Something surfaced beneath her mother’s curious expression and Ashara hurried to investigate the sudden shift. Yet, the emotion disappeared before she could identify it. It was like reaching desperately for a crashing wave; where the bubbles fizzled so tantalizingly close but the wind pushed it away losing it forever.

However, for the first time in so very long, her mother opened her arms for an embrace. Ashara fell into it remembering a time when they were happy and careless; a time when love was being warm and shrouded in her mother’s musical laughter. 

They stayed like that a while, both holding on to a memory of a better time.

“When you were born, I suffered three long nights for you to come. A fair little thing in my arms, and when I looked into your eyes, an exact reflection of my own, violet for the place our ancestors came from, I knew that you were mine alone to love.” Lady Alyssa whispered.

Ashara felt the wetness of tears fall into her hair. The words stirred an unimaginable pain within her, because her mother, for all she was supposed to be, had failed her.

“For each of us, there is someone, and for me it is you. I _do_ love you. I _always_ have in the capacity I knew how...”

Ashara pulled back, never having expected that, and for a moment, she hated her a little less.

“...yet, you and I, we are two halves of the same thing...”

Ashara always believed herself to be Arthur’s half. However, she could not help but ponder how different they were, and that perhaps her mother was correct.

“... and for that I am sorry...”

Lady Alyssa took a long pause and studied Ashara from head to toe. In turn, Ashara examined her. Her beauty was captivating, but she was also _young_ , something Ashara had never realised before. In the mirrors to her soul, Ashara saw something akin to regret.

“...because it means you will be like me; selfish, and melancholic down to your innermost core, and incapable of true selfless love, not even for your own children.”

Although the words were surely a hex, there was no malice in the voice which spoke them, only a frightening self-loathing.

“And you will attempt to cover it with laughter, and passion, and dance or even duty... but in the end, it will all still be there... that is the curse of the Purple Ladies.”

Ashara felt the weight of the words like a wave of water, blanketing and drowning her in augury.

She thought to the Red Priestess’ prophecy of betrayal, calamity, blood and death. To end the curse, she would rise higher than ever before, only to fall even further. She pondered if she was truly destined to end the curse of the Purple Ladies and bring a new Dawn.

In the quiet she considered the correlation of damaged women and the curse. She knew that damage did not stop at one person, it rolled down generations. That was the scope of devastation in the wake of trauma. She thought of Lady Alyssa whose trauma came from the deaths of her family. This had closed her off emotionally to her husband and children. It displayed in a lack of nurturing, and an inability to form the strength of loving bonds parents and children need. In turn, Ashara vowed to never have children because of her trauma. This legacy of broken souls raising more broken souls needed to stop.

“I won’t be like you.” Ashara settled on.

Her mother pulled her back into her arms a final time.

“I hope so.”

Between them, a hard nudge came from the protruding stomach.

 _Please be a boy,_ Ashara thought. Though, something in her bones told her it would be a girl. 

“I need you to love better with this one, to love harder regardless of your melancholy. This House has seen its fill of broken maids.”

Lady Alyssa caressed her hand over her bump with a wide smile despite the solemnness which still lingered around her eyes.

“You believe it will be another fair little maiden?”

Ashara got a glimpse of the woman her mother once was, and her heart ached for it. Not trusting her voice, she placed her hand above the darker one, and felt another nudge come from the belly.

“Mayhaps it will be another chance to get it right.”

Lady Dayne was an enigma to Ashara, one she resolved she might never understand.


	16. Sunspear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Daynes are introduced to Sunspear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

** Sunspear **

_Da, da, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum._

Ashara jumped from her afternoon slumber, the terror startling her awake. Another frightening dream.

As the haze of drowsiness slipped away, her eyes found impossibly dark ones in the bright light. Princess Elia stared down at her concerned, sun shining behind her long brown waves creating a bronze halo, like that of a goddess.

“All is well my dearest Asha.” Elia spoke affectionately.

The reassurance in those molten eyes allowed her to recall where she was.

They: Ashara, Elia and Oberyn – were sat in the Water Gardens of Dorne, the private retreat palace of the Martell’s, although they spent the majority of their time here, ruled and protected by their Princess Elia and Prince Oberyn.

They had been hiding from the scorching sun in one of the shadowed galleries, when Ashara fell asleep, head in Elia’s lap, music of joyous children splashing and shrieking amidst the pools and fountains. However, what started as a carefree doze, ended in a startling daydream.

Ashara slowed her breathing and allowed the last embers of the visions to fall away. It had been many moons since she last experienced such dreams.

She bit the inside of her cheek, embarrassed because just that same day, she had teased and then fought with Elia claiming she was practically a woman grown. She was a maiden of ten and five now, and yet, here she was, desperately seeking out Elia’s comforting touch like one of the children she could hear crying nearby because she was afraid of her own dream.

When she had arrived at Sunspear she was broken. Yet, the horrors still had not left her mind with the discovery of the Water Gardens, lively courts filled with music and dance, gigantic palm trees or more fruits – blood oranges – than she could get her fill of.

The terrors she believed she could leave behind in Starfall had come along with her and Arthur, as if another one of the keisters of their possessions. The nightmares had continued from the very first night in the Old Palace.

Ashara was given her own bedchambers, adjoining Princess Elia’s, adorned in violet walls, star-silver curtains and lavish furniture. Despite her warm welcome, that first night, Ashara woke up to Elia and Arthur at her bedside. Confused as to why they were hovering, Arthur quietly explained her screams while she slept. Quickly after, Elia volunteered to stay and comfort her until they subsided.

At the time, the feisty Ashara fast opposed such a notion, displeased with special treatment, she found it humiliating enough her brother still requested to guard her door, to the detriment of his own sleep. Ashara wanted to prove herself to her new family. Eventually, as the intensity of her terrors subsided, and her and Elia grew closer; spending hours of darkness talking about everything and anything, she could not find it within herself to protest. She became dependent upon dark eyes and the warm steadying hand she sought out in the night.

And so, each night, from that first, while Ashara had nightmares of her past chase her in subconscious, Elia was beside, holding her tight and attempting to chase _them_ away. With time she found her nightmares lessened.

Despite it all, even in her waking hours, like now, she could not quite outrun her trauma. The faded scars continued to remind her of what had happened. Furthermore, at times, Ashara still heard drums and footsteps with no source of either.

_Da, da, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum.._

The beats would be as loud as they had been on that terrible evening. Her heart rate would accelerate, and she would attempt to control her breathing rate like her father taught her his last night.

Always, she checked her nails for dirt. After the attack they had been ripped, broken and bleeding from clawing at the ground to escape. For that reason, Elia suggested she always wear bright colours on her nails. All colours except from crimson.

‘Seeing was believing.’ Elia had said.

Otherwise, if she saw red, she would be dragged back into a full blown flashback, checking herself for the blood that ran down her arms from the rips, seeing the face of her attacker on every pale-faced man that walked by. She had been lost in psychosis a few times, fighting her torturer off, but bright sun-yellow or Martell-orange painted on her nails could stop the cycle.

Today, just like Elia taught her, she looked to her sunset nails in attempts to still her mind. Although Ashara was much better than in the beginning, had pieced herself together and found joy in Sunspear over time, this day she could not shake the shackles of her past trauma.

“Sister, are you well?”

Arthur appeared from where she had last seen him conversing with Wylla and the other fostered youths of Sunspear. He was never too far away, and always ready for whatever threat come toward her, whether that be external or internal.

Many eyes watched her like some foreign creature; and she felt the familiar rising of the smothering of anxiety.

“I think I’ll go for a swim.” Ashara spoke, rising from Elia’s lap and scurrying off as quickly as possible.

There was one rule when it came to the tempestuous Summer Sea. Princess Furiosa, the woman that had become something of a mother to the Dayne’s, only allowed them to swim in the sea in pairs or not at all. Always two in the Summer Sea. That was the rule.

However, this day, it could not inspire Ashara to be cautious. Ashara submerged herself entirely in the waters which tasted sweet under the feverish Dornish sun. She submitted to nature, floated on frontwards and lay silent and dead still in the never-ending blue. Her ears were blocked and the overwhelming sounds of real life distorted and washed away. Although Ashara was of the stars, her heart found comfort in the sea. It was only when completely ingulfed in a _quiet_ underworld were the imaginary sounds of drums drowned out. 

Eventually, as so many other times before, she felt a strong hand yank her out.

“Asha are you trying to wash away to your death!” He yelled as held on to her in an iron grip.

She realised she must have been under for longer than she thought as she had managed to drift out further than normal. The beach was a way away.

Arthur’s eyes reflected the water as he stared at her desperately.

“How many times have I asked you not to go without me?”

Arthur hated when she did that, he would resent her for weeks every time, subsequently resulting in him hovering about her more frantically.

“You frighten me, Asha. It’s like you cannot hear me.” 

She heard his pleas for her in his overbearing protection and constant care. Yet, she believed it was him who could not hear _her._ It was difficult to articulate that she was sick in her mind, heart and soul. She tried to show him that her entire insides felt desolate, but he would never comprehend.

Arthur dragged her back toward the shallower end where Elia had relocated with some of the children. Ashara watched as they clung and climbed Elia, chasing her about the waves. She always marvelled at Elia’s ability with children. Where she had to coerce herself to engage, children gravitated toward Elia so naturally, and in turn she played with them easily. It stirred something inexplicable inside her.

“Asha...”

“...Ashara, are you well?” He asked again. 

“You know I am not half as delicate as you treat me!” Annoyed, she snapped, feeling smothered by the attention. 

She stalked off down the beach, intent on battling her demons alone this day.

“Arthur don’t you dare follow me or I swear on all seven hells I’ll never give you your bloody sword back.” She yelled, feet stomping away in the golden sand.

Not soon after, as she walked along, she heard footsteps following.

“I told yo– ” She whipped around ready to rebuke her brother.

Instead, Elia appeared, chasing after her, despite how out of breath and red-faced it made her.

Ashara immediately felt terrible, the Princess had been struggling more, as of late, with her health. She suffered with dire fatigue, fainting spells; chills even in the sizzling heat; and thirst which oft left a sweet fruity odour on her breath long after she had stopped eating blood oranges. 

“Elia, apologies, I did not mean to make you run or hurt – ”

“Oh stop it, do not pity my fragile health, it is nothing I cannot handle.” Elia reprimanded.

Despite her words, it took her longer than it should to calm. 

As Ashara sought to continue, Elia defiantly refused to take her offered arm so she might support her as they strolled. This was Elia proving a point to them both, she was sure. 

“Whilst you are not as delicate as you are treated, you _are_ twice as fiery... you and Oberyn are of the same blood I’m sure.”

Ashara had grown a temper that rivalled Oberyn’s in her time at Sunspear. Something about the Martell’s free nature allowed her to express every emotion that she felt. It made her feel more Nymeros Martell than Dayne some days. Whilst Arthur had found a happy medium, much like Elia, she fluctuated from Martell-like brazenness to Dayne-like silence. 

“It just... it feels asphyxiating when he worries over me like that.”

Elia smiled knowingly.

“He is your sworn sword, your guardian...but first of all he is your brother.”

Ashara rolled her eyes, having had this conversation near a hundred times.

“Oberyn does not treat _you_ so delicately.” She whined.

Oberyn loved his sister fiercely, yet he was not overbearing in the same manner as Arthur. Oberyn existed outside of Elia, had passion and love and life, both with and without her.

“Yet he pesters all the maesters, healers and woods witches from here to Essos for potions and poisons to cure my ailments. Do you not think that is embarrassing for me?”

Ashara was silent a while as they continued to stroll. 

“Oberyn did not cause your malady. Arthur worries about me too late – _now_ , when there is no danger.”

Elia let out a deep sigh or perhaps a struggled breath beside her. 

“Do you wish he did not concern himself with you?”

Arthur seemed to be unable and unwilling to have anything which did not involve Ashara. She all but forced him to accept to be the Prince Consort’s personal steward so she might have respite from him. She knew he promised their father to make her his duty, but it was crippling them both.

“ _You_ have the power to send him _and_ his sword away... still you do not, because you _want_ him here beside you.” 

It was true, but sometimes when the memories of terrible events seemed like they happened yesterday, it was difficult to quiet the thoughts which pushed blame to her brother. She needed someone to blame for the broken person she was afraid she would likely forever be.

“I know but sometimes I cannot stand him, _perfect_ Arthur who failed at the one thing he was supposed to do, the one thing I believed in him to always do.” 

Elia stopped them then, hand on Ashara’s forearm burning against the faded scars of before. 

“Arthur is not your mother or father. If you seek blame perhaps point it that way. You cannot treat him as a punching post because there is no one else to criticize.” She said scornfully.

She had requested to not be treated delicately and Elia was doing just that. Elia always told her the hard truths and equally demanded the same back. So, she did not take her words as insult but as lesson from someone both young and wise. Still, she could be a little annoyed by it.

“You take up for your friend far _too_ quickly...” Ashara attempted to change subject.

“...perhaps, you also find him as handsome as the maidens of the Gardens?”

Elia’s dark eyes studied hers.

“Jealousy does not become you dear.”

Ashara tutted as they came to sit under the tall palm trees of the beach.

Once they settled, Elia continued, not ready to let Ashara off the hook so easily.

“Your dark mood is nothing to do with Arthur, not truly, what troubles you my sweet?” 

Memories of the dream that had woken her up and caused this turbulent mood came back to her.

“Gloomy dreams again?” Elia prompted.

Ashara nodded.

“It is the same one from a few moons back...I am home in Starfall, in chambers I do not recognise, and I hear the wailing of a babe...”

Elia listened intently, to identify the patterns of her dreams as usual.

“...it is a pretty little thing, with violet eyes like mother and it reaches out for me. When I hold it – I, I, I...” She struggled to place the emotion.

“...I suppose I want to _protect_ her. Yet, when I hold her, you know how useless I am with crying babes...”

Ashara could not even cope with the elder, more reasonable, children of the Water Gardens. Screeching little creatures gave her a panic she did not know what to do with.

“... I call out for mother to come get her, I call for father and my brothers, but no one comes. Before I can do anything, the babe is suddenly gone from my arms and I am left standing there holding its furs. When I woke up earlier, I was frantically trying to find her.” Ashara explained.

Elia’s hand entwined with her own as she deciphered her terrors.

“Do you think the little babe is young Allyria?”

“I do not have the energy to figure it out Elia.”

Ashara shrugged, she had purposefully tried to not think too deeply about it, preferring to wash away the images in the sea.

“They say the descendants of Nymeria are blessed with prophetic dreams.” Elia pondered.

“Do you have them?”

Elia smiled then.

“I cannot be sure, but once I dreamt of a silver moon with a smiling face and glistening amethyst eyes, the next day I met _you_.” She confessed. 

“Do you think my sister is in danger?”

Ashara felt much guilt toward her sister. Since little Allyria’s birth, Ashara had only visited twice.

“How about I send the Sword of the Morning home to make sure she is well?”

Elia understood her like no other and for that she was eternally grateful. Starfall no longer felt like home, it carried as much grey inside its walls as the dreary ones of Driftmark. Ashara had found happiness in Sunspear and did not want to leave its protection needlessly, Elia understood that.

“That way your dreams might stop hounding you... and perhaps you might want to sever off Arthur’s head a little less once you have had respite from one another.”

Ashara laughed easily at Elia’s teasing.

Just then, one of the orphaned children of the Water Gardens appeared, presenting them blood oranges. Elia accepted the offering with kisses across the little girl’s face, Ashara began to peel and cut pieces.

In the quietness which settled between them, Ashara’s mind drifted back to her visions. Eventually, she voiced a dark secret.

“With every dream I have less desire to see another dawn.”

Although she had found much joy in the humid warmth of the Water Gardens, where she could exist carefree and unencumbered, some days, like this day, where she woke with the feeling of tears falling from her eyes, she fantasised about death.

Ashara sat with the blade in her hand, thinking how sweet relief it would be to cut it against her skin and let crimson liquid run out of her veins, like the juice from the blood oranges she feasted on. But she would not. Somehow that seemed the easy way out.

Elia observed her, not all that surprised by her words. She gave her a smile sadder than tears.

“We are all fated to die someday, that much is true, but do not flirt with death so openly. My dearest Ashara; be warned that the power of life and death lies with the tongue... and death does not happen to _you_ , it happens to people who love you.”

Elia took the knife from her hand gently forcing her eyes to meet the expectantly waiting dark ones.

“Your brothers love you; our Princess loves you, the children love you... _I_ love you. Someday you will love _you._ You will care for yourself better than this darkness. You will not survive for nothing. You will _live_ for something. Even if eventually, you die for it... and when the day comes, you will have made death proud to take you.”

Elia pulled her into her arms, holding on so tightly Ashara knew her words had shaken her more than she would admit.

“Asha. Do you believe me?”

She did, though if it was because she believed in the words or because she believed in Elia, Ashara did not know. All she knew was everything was better when in Elia’s arms.

Ashara smiled, her mind still reeling and her feelings still a wreck, but at least relieved that her lovely Elia loved her.

She returned to her position as they lounged beneath the palm tree, glancing at Elia with a smile. Looking up at her as Ashara settled her head onto the elder girl’s lap again, Elia chuckled.

“What is so funny, my sweet Elia?”

“Ohh, I am just imagining how the Princess is going to punish you after Arthur tells him you went in alone again,” she replied.

Ashara turned and gulped comically.

“What do you mean?”

Elia let out a louder laugh, kissing Ashara on the cheek before stroking through her dark hair.

“You stressed your brother _and_ defied the rule again. I can only imagine the punishment... all day with the Septa, no blood orange treats for the year, _banishment_ from the Gardens..." she said with a teasing smirk.

“She would not.”

“Oh, she would. Oberyn was banned for six moons once.”

Ashara groaned as she buried her head into Elia’s lap, the princess poked at her, laughing all the while.

“Well, if you apologise to your brother, I might make plea for your case.”

Although the day was plagued by darkness, like the first time they met, Elia managed to call away her darkest demons and temper her worst impulses.


	17. If Only

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur experiences life in Sunspear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur

** If Only  **

The night Arthur found out what happened to Ashara, he had thrown up. He had not even made it to the privacy of his own chambers. He was Arthur _Steelstar_ , the youngest ever _Sword of the Morning_. Yet, his hands had shaken violently at the knowledge of his sister’s pain.

It was not lost on him that in the hours in which he was celebrated as a saviour come, he had not saved the most important person to him. Although that was years ago now, the thoughts of guilt were not distant. 

In the years following, as they grew up in Sunspear, he watched over Ashara diligently and vigilantly. He was immovable from her side. Ashara became his life, and in the aftermath of his failure he vowed to himself to live _for_ her. Not because his absent father had commanded him or because of duty. Although there was some guilt, he made the vow because he loved her more than his own life.

Where Starfall had snuffed out her light, in Sunspear he watched an altogether different star grow anew in violet eyes. Her star arose fierce with the sun-hot heat of a Martell. Ashara developed before his eyes into a beautiful and strong maiden. She was unapologetically herself despite how broken she was inside.

In Sunspear, they found a home and were accepted into a family open with love. The Martell’s loved them like they were of sunlight rather than their starlight. Although they found joy there, Arthur could not forget Starfall, his brother, sister and mother so easily. Where he was fostered by the Martell’s, Ashara was adopted. Princess Furiosa replaced Lady Dayne; the Prince consort healed the scars of Ser Waters abandonment; even Wylla, her formerly closest companion was replaced by Elia, and whilst Oberyn did not substitute Aethan or himself, he was just as important, to Arthur’s dismay. Were it not for Ashara’s fairer sun-kissed skin and Dayne-violet eyes, one might have called her Lady Ashara of _House Martell_.

Ashara was not the only one to flourish in Sunspear. Arthur settled into his position well, a steward to Lord Oto, a personal guard to the young royals, and a Dawn-less Sword of the Morning. He saw himself knighted in his first battle, a minor Dornish dispute against raiding Orphans of the Greenblood.

Yet, he found himself lonely in the home which was not _his_ home. He missed his brother, he missed his father. Though, thoughts of home and loneliness lessened when love began to blossom in his chest.

Elia was the first Arthur loved unlike family. As a young boy, romance and anything of the kind had not interested him in the slightest. Maiden’s and women alike fawned over his looks as he developed into a man and even the prettiest of them all had not caused his heart to flutter. Until Elia.

He was not sure when exactly his heart began to ache for her; it might have been when she blushed as she congratulated him on his first victory in the arena. It could have been when she laughed at his half-hearted jokes and countered with her own wit as he accompanied her to her regular visits to the maester. It was likely that one time, when they both spent weeks worrying if Ashara would survive when she was confined to her bedchambers due to a hysteria spell.

He had wondered if they could have been _lovers_ in a different world, he pondered this as he stood at the entrance of the Old Palace veranda, guarding his sister – guarding them both, and watched Elia spin around as Ashara taught her to dance. They could have been, if only his little sister was not so clearly _in love_ with her. 

From the first meeting, standing soaked on Starfall’s cobbled courtyard, Ashara and Elia formed a bond unlike any other. Once they moved to Sunspear, it only became stronger, Ashara wanting nothing more than to spend time with the Princess, and Elia the same.

Whenever they walked the busy bazaars of the Shadow City, Ashara always took Elia's hand, always feeling safe with her protector right nearby. Arthur came to realise that Elia was just as much her guardian as him. She was the only one he had ever trusted with Ashara.

For young Ashara, who still had no idea what she was growing into, she was oblivious to the fact that she was supposed to be wanting to spend all of her time with boys and not her lovely Elia. Arthur was still surprised Elia had yet to figure it out, but he knew that for the clever Princess, it was only a matter of time.

If only he had not sworn to live _for_ Ashara’s happiness. _If only._

Instead, he settled on burying his feelings and so, Elia and he joked and laughed about the joys of being middle children with fervid younger siblings and pensive dutiful elder ones. He pursued an easy friendship lined with carefully curated boundaries.

It was easy enough to follow, except recently, when he had caught Elia’s gaze lingering on him. At first, he convinced himself, she was simply catching his eye when he was unconsciously staring for too long. Until the day previous, the last time they were alone, he caught her watching his lips before Ashara interrupted them and stole her away.

Ashara’s shrieking pulled him out of his thoughts, and he realised that, again, he had been openly staring at Elia a _long_ while.

He cleared his throat and approached the pair, having been on his way to accompany Elia to the maester for her regular treatment infusions.

“Princess, your mother has sent me to take you to the maester.”

He hated to interrupt; he treasured the days when they were all as happy as this day. Especially as it seemed Ashara was having more troubled days than good for the past two moons.

Their smiles faded, but of all the things Ashara protested, this was never one of them. She embraced Elia a final time and bid them farewell to seek out Wylla.

He offered her his arm as usual and they set off toward the healing chambers.

“You never finished telling me about your trip to Starfall, last we spoke.” She prompted.

He picked up where he left off previous. As they walked, she listened quietly, more quietly than usual, without the occasional input of a witty remark.

“Ashara missed you...” Elia said into the strange quiet that had settled between them.

“...we _all_ did.”

There was something behind her words that caused his heart to immediately start racing.

“It was nice to visit home, but I am glad to be here.” He admitted.

“Are you?”

He looked down at her out the corner of his eye, curious as to her curiosity.

“Of course, my sister is here.”

A rare frown graced her pretty features.

“I suppose if it was not for your sister you would not come back.” She posed it as both a question and a statement.

Although, he sensed ambiguity in her words.

“I would if there was something to keep me here.”

Elia slowed their pace then.

He was unsure why he said it, but he knew it was a confession and answer to the question she had veiled in her previous statement.

In the shadows of the fading sun in the hidden hallway, Arthur felt her hand move from his forearm to his own, until their hands locked together. 

He hesitated a moment, revelling at the vision of her dark skin against his golden hand. Yet, he was sensible enough to tug his hand away softly and widen the gap between them a little.

Undeterred, Elia continued.

“I have something I would like to tell you.”

His heart thumped almost painfully against his ribcage – whether with nervousness or anticipation, he did not quite know.

“In regards to something... I think you perhaps feel too.”

It was not as if Elia had been imagining it. How could she, when one or both of them, had too many times before, had to take a step back because of the embers which flared between them whenever they got too close – physically and emotionally – had become too much?

Despite the boundaries he tried to keep, he had not completely acted to prevent what was occurring. 

“Princess, I have a feeling I know what truths you wish to air...”

Elia came to stand in front of him, effectively preventing him from continuing their path to the healing chamber.

“...and if it is what I think, then I do not wish to hear it.” He forced Lady Alyssa’s tone of finality into his voice.

Elia took a sharp breath, steeling herself before lifting her hand to his cheek, and holding his gaze she asked, “Why?”

“You know why.”

They always had an unspoken agreement that had never even needed to be uttered.

 _Ashara_.

And that agreement meant that although they toed the line before, neither of them had ever actually crossed it.

This time, though, Arthur leaned into Elia’s soft touch a little too long and guilt swirled at the base of his stomach. 

Again, he moved himself away, attempted to step out of her reach. Except, Elia caught his hand again and caressed at the knuckles so affectionately he thought he might just die if she let go.

“Princess...”

His voice shook.

“Elia...” he pleaded. “You know why I – why _we –_ cannot.”

Elia sighed tiredly, whether from their conversation or her lethargy, he was not sure.

“I know...” she admitted helplessly.

“...I understand. I am a princess and you are a second son destined for vows of fidelity. But... that does not change the fact that – that I am beginning to care for you.”

Arthur’s eyes widened, and he was surprised for so long, he was unable to swerve Elia’s advance on him.

It was his first kiss. Although, it was barely even a kiss. Elia’s mouth barely brushed against his lower lip for no longer than a few seconds before she pulled away, ever so slightly, but still with her forehead leant against his so their breath mingled, and their noses grazed against each other.

He was ten and six, a man grown and had never kissed a maid, let alone the Princess Elia. Despite its briefness, he could not deny how glorious it felt – the way the beat of his heart became exhilaratingly unsteady, the sheer spontaneity of it – so much so that his heart sank a little when he saw the expression in Elia’s eyes – as if she had come to some awful realisation.

In her dark eyes he saw she likely truly understood why they could not pursue such feelings.

Her mouth open and closed, the lips that had just been on his forming a name that he did not wish to hear for the first time in his life.

If she truly understood, that Ashara loved her, she did not voice it.

Instead, she took his arm again, and silently they made their way to the maester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is well during these uncertain times across the world <3 Let me know if you enjoyed the last few chapters!


	18. Coming Of Age

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara explores beauty, desire and shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

It was a strange thing to be aware of one’s beauty. From very young, acquaintances both new and old marvelled at Ashara’s fair brown skin, dimpled smile, dark wavy hair and starlit violet eyes; the feature most favoured about her.

As she developed into a tall shapely maiden, she noticed a shift in the attention she received. It was a polarising comeliness that caused attraction of either worship or envy. Whilst beauty was every maiden’s wish, Ashara found hers an albatross. It was as if she carried a third leg, she stuck out so much. People awed at her as if she were not even there, like the statue of Nymeria in the Old Palace.

It was a hinderance when too many only saw the allure and failed to notice how hideous she felt inside. Something gnawed at her because every time she saw her reflection, she did not know who was staring back. She did not understand why so many sought to be around her. Yet, she satisfied herself that if she wielded others adoration, she might grow to feel as beautiful internally as she was externally.

Lords and ladies, noble and pauper alike leered at her openly. Arthur did not like that at all. There was a fight, and then there was a duel, and in the end a ward was sent home a few fingers less. But when Ashara inquired about what happened, Arthur simply looked at her unfazed, and asked her what she was talking about. Of course, he knew, because he was the one to draw blood. She was the sister of the Sword of the Morning and he did not take protecting her lightly.

When she confronted him again, he said there was none yet worthy of her and until one came and earned her would not step back.

Thus, seemingly each day a new suitor came, with dreams of marriage on their lips. Ashara would turn them away and seek out Elia to laugh at such absurdity. She was certain she would marry no man, and ideally happily dance at Elia’s side in Sunspear forever, but it would be a lie to say she was not intrigued about each who came.

So, Ashara flirted with the young lords pretending to lose games for her, the boys with the darkest Dornish skin, the older ones with crooked, hungry grins — the ones who snatched her around the waist in desperate hope of a kiss, or the strongest that she allowed to lift her on their shoulders and walk her around — the daring ones who held her tight and rubbed against her. She teased the ladies in diaphanous, coloured dresses, the maidens with lemon creams Ashara licked slyly, the girls with freckles and full lips and dark black curls — the ones who held Ashara’s hand fearfully through crowded bazaars and nightfire celebrations, or linked arms while strolling the Water Gardens — the ones who tasted like blood oranges when Ashara held them in a secluded part of the palace, grinding hips and soft fingers through their hair.

She was more than a little intrigued, she was curious as they come.

She was content to merrily string fleeting dalliances along forever, until recent events had her come upon a curious scene. She witnessed Elia kiss Arthur, and that stirred something strange inside her.

There were more instances than one in which she caught Arthur paying special attention to the princess. There were lingering gazes and dazzling smiles whenever Elia jested with him, and somehow his assigned duties always seemed to be wherever she was near. At the time, Ashara thought it was nothing more than Arthur being her overbearing brother, but with new knowledge, it was clear Arthur desired Elia.

Ashara bantered with Elia in the past of possible attraction, but she always vehemently denied any returned affection and Ashara believed her. Now, it made Ashara unfathomably vexed when she noted that Elia returned the attention. When she was to see the maester, it was Arthur she requested to accompany her; when he and the others trained, Elia coincidently led them there.

Ashara fully comprehended what they saw in one another. Arthur was exotically handsome with well-defined cheekbones and sharp jaw; but it was his character that truly made him beautiful. He was a great spirit and strictly followed his noble ways. Elia was a classical Dornish beauty, and beyond that, her mind was captivating. She could engage with anyone of all stature with stimulating conversation. She had Nymeria’s intellect, and uncommonly excellent knowledge of history and strategy, from long conversations with the Princess and Doran. They were the ideal pair, a true knight and a perfect princess. 

Ashara’s discovery troubled her for days following, but she was unable to articulate why. At first, she blamed it on feelings of betrayal, in that neither Arthur nor Elia told her afterward. Then, she suspected the jealousy she felt was because she worried what would happen to _her_. She was spoilt in their love; Elia’s kindness and Arthur’s protection, it was all she relied on to survive. Selfishly, she concluded that they would not have enough love left for her if they loved each other.

It was with these feelings of uncertainty and seeking validation that she pushed herself toward Oberyn and his mischief. Therefore, when Oberyn left one afternoon to one of Sunspear’s pleasure houses, Ashara followed.

“This is where I learnt about the truth of life. It is the most honest and dishonest house in the realm.” Oberyn said as he handed her coins.

Despite her curiosity, she was somewhat shy, in a place of such indulgence she felt out of place as the heads turned toward them.

“Sit... do not be so stiff, you remind me of Arthur.”

Ashara laid on the plush loveseat, observing the way the expected murmurs travelled from the entrance to the boudoirs.

“I could never be the bastion of abstinence he is.”

Arthur was chivalrous to a fault. Although she had witnessed his kiss with Elia, she also saw he was the one to pull away, and she knew that was the furthest to temptation he would dance.

“I, for one, am glad for it.” He said with a deliberately slow kiss to her hand.

The pleasure house was as alive as any bazaar, with men and women-alike come to purchase pleasure. Ashara was unsure how to feel in such an establishment, it was rather new, and it confronted her curiosity head-on. Yet, when she saw a woman so beautiful her breath caught, she was more than sure she was in the right place.

The whore, appeared more maid than woman grown, was slender with the darkest eyes and even darker Dornish ochre skin. Her divine black hair rested right above her rear and cheeks the colour of pink roses and eyelashes longer than any other. Though it was the firm fitting orange bustier that left little to the imagination which Ashara’s eyes drifted to.

So laden was Ashara’s gaze, that the woman on whom it was trained seemed to feel it. Their eyes met through the heavy crowd when she turned from the privateer she was entertaining. At the sight of Ashara, her lips quirked up into a wicked smile and she dipped her head in greeting.

Without so much as a word of goodbye to the man, the whore gathered a fresh flagon of wine and a goblet, sauntered slow and seductive across the room, and slipped onto Ashara’s lap as if she belonged there.

Ashara, who was unused to being in such a position, commonly being the one on another’s legs, leaned back to accommodate her.

“A cup of good Dornish red should put your nerves at ease my lady,” the woman purred, the rich tones of her voice sending a pulse through Ashara’s body.

It was not new to feel the flames of desire tickle her core, yet this felt far different from the few kisses and light petting she had exchanged before.

With so many heady thoughts clouding her mind, Ashara did not reach out to take the proffered goblet. Instead, the whore took the goblet from her unresisting hand and poured out two mouthfuls of the dark red liquid. Ashara watched, enthralled, as she brought the glass up to her lips, let her eyes flutter closed and supped half. Her tongue came out to lick the wine from her lips and she opened her eyes with a sensuous slowness, holding Ashara’s gaze as steadily as if she had never broken it.

Ashara took the half-emptied goblet, followed with the same confidence and held her stare as she swallowed the wine in accepted challenge. It was not as easy as it looked, and she unappealingly spluttered at the sour taste.

A tinkling laugh escaped the whore’s lips.

“I suppose I should ‘ave warned you, it is not as sweet as what you are used to in the Palace.” The accent Ashara picked up as Lhazareen, the musical liquid sound of the Princess’ handmaiden.

The whore snaked her arms around Ashara’s neck and invaded what little space was left between them, close enough to kiss.

“I, I, well – ”

Ashara turned the colour of dragon peppers and Oberyn let out an amused laugh beside her.

“And to think you are usually so honey-tongued.”

She swatted him as the whore flashed a victorious grin.

“I ‘ave not seen you in ‘ere before...” she said, her voice sensuously soft.

Ashara found herself under a spell.

“...we would _all_ ‘ave remembered a maid so striking. What are you called, milady?”

If it had not been for the residue of wine, her mouth would have been too dry to speak.

“Lady Ashara.” She croaked out, spellbound.

The woman’s eyes widened, and she smiled. No one in Sunspear did not know that name.

“Hmm, _Lady_ _Ashara_. Such a pretty name.” When this stranger said her name, it sounded new, as if no one had ever said it right until that moment.

“My mother, she named me for her mother, who named her for – ” Ashara rambled, though she could not for the life of her understand why.

“The Ashara star,” the woman interrupted, smiling slyly like she knew just how surprised Ashara would be at a whore knowing that.

“The brightest north star of the Sword of the Morning constellation. A name fit for one as beautiful as the stars. Ela is not so pretty.”

“Ela? Is that truly what your mother named you?”

Ashara could have died from how impolite it sounded. She never did have control of her tongue. Something about its similarity to Elia’s made her realise just how much the woman looked like her princess.

“Apologies. I just mean… Well, it is quite… like the Princess Elia’s.”

Ashara frowned looking over at Oberyn who was being dragged to a boudoir by another whore. She did not know why the link to Elia, who was as family to her, stirred something strange in her core. Although, it was not entirely unpleasant, quite the opposite.

Ela laughed endearingly.

“Ela is who I am today, perhaps Asha is who I will be tomorrow. I am what my patrons need. Does it matter if my mother would agree?”

This was the very thing Ashara liked most about Sunspear. Nothing that came before mattered to anyone on her sands. Everyone lived for the moment and few for the future. None gave a concern about ones’ past.

“I suppose not. It is a pleasure to meet you, Ela.” She conceded.

“The pleasure is all mine, Lady Ashara,” Ela purred as she stirred in Ashara’s lap, drifting closer and shifting her weight to press between her thighs.

Ashara gasped and Ela smiled triumphantly.

“And I would very much like to show you _how_ much of a pleasure it is.” She spoke with seductive surety.

Ashara could not speak for the dryness in her mouth, but she did not resist as she was led to private chambers adjacent with Oberyn, who could be seen with _two_ whores through the translucent drapes.

The moment Ashara sat, Ela straddled and attacked her lips in a teasing game. Desire spread like wildfire through her body, robbing all rational thought.

Like a slow dance, Ela removed her bustier laces and Ashara watched without knowing where to put her hands. 

As each fabric dropped an unsure feeling settled atop her chest. It was something unrecognisable, between lust, shame, anger and fear.

“You can touch me if you wish.”

All want subsided in the familiar growing fear which haunted Ashara every time she found herself in intimate circumstances. Always, she would retreat into herself when this anxiety settled about her bones. Then she would find a way to escape and never discuss it again, ending many a romance before it could truly flair. Ashara was known as a tease, though she herself did not understand what was wrong with her.

However, this time, looking into dark eyes which seemed _so_ familiar, she found the feeling of fleeing less urgent.

“Is – Is that what you wish?”

Ela looked at her curiously.

“Lady Ashara; you do know where you are, yes?”

“Still, you should have choice and want in this.”

Memories of her own stolen choice bubbled beneath the surface.

Ela stared at her long and hard, seeing the conviction in violet eyes. Understanding seemed to dawn and gently she took Ashara’s hand in her own.

“You are my choice. _I_ chose you after all.”

Ashara gave her an encouraging smile and the surety in her eyes was enough to allow her to continue.

When Ela finished with her corset, she moved to undress Ashara; first taking her veil, then waistbelt and lastly, gown clasps.

“I keep it on.” Ashara explained, teeth digging into her bottom lip nervously.

Ela nodded in acknowledgement before dropping her hand to Ashara’s cheek.

“Are you certain this what you want?”

It was peculiar the care this whore had for her, it reminded her even more of Elia and Ashara did not understand why she surged up and kissed her in response. It must have been answer enough because Ela captured her hands and brought the left to her bottom and the right to her breast.

“If I – I can push you off my lap if I do not like it.” Ashara said when Ela leant back to check her eyes once more.

She let out her tinkling laugh once more.

“You might try using words first, Lady Ashara,” she replied playfully before capturing waiting lips.

Ashara’s eyes shut as a hand trailed down her abdomen, softly tickling the skin there. Her breath hitched from the exploration taking her close to something she was sure felt like jumping out of a high tower. She could not breathe from it.

“That’s it, relax,” Ela murmured, her breath hot against her ear. She tilted her head and pressed her lips to Ashara’s neck, warm and damp, as her hand slid beneath her silk gown.

Ashara was lost. Trapped in pleasure, a slave to Ela’s ministrations, and _still_ a creeping fear stealing her breath.

“Ashara!” Arthur’s voice was lightening made sound. It sliced through her desire and killed it dead.

Her skin flushed hot, then cold and Ela grew still on her lap.

“What in seven hells are you doing?”

Ashara managed by some miracle of instinct to guard Ela’s dignity by covering her with the bed’s sheets. But that was where her grace ended. Ashara flew inelegantly to her feet and stalked shakily to Arthur’s side, red-cheeked and panting.

Arthur did a double take when his eyes finally landed on Ela’s and his anger seemingly dissipated.

“I was doing what I damn well please, you are not my father,” Ashara said, her voice still breathy.

She was far too embarrassed to be truly enraged at his interruption.

“We are leaving,” he commanded in a no-nonsense tone.

She refused to move in attempts to save face.

“Ashara Dayne,” Arthur warned more sternly, and as he went to jostle her into action, Oberyn’s hand caught him first.

With remarkable celerity Arthur twisted out of the grasp, and instead captured his wrist. For someone so used to handling snakes, Oberyn was also startled by the movement.

“Unhand me Arthur. I am no little Lord Jordayne, you won’t get any of my fingers so easily.” Oberyn threatened.

Arthur had never been fond of Oberyn, not since he failed to protect Ashara and Oberyn succeeded. Equally, Oberyn was not particularly interested in the law-abiding knight, far too serious and dutiful for his liking. Were it not for their sisters and mothers, the two would have drawn swords long ago.

“Test me and find out. You do not know the lengths I would go to for my sister.”

“Nor mine, Ser Arthur, nor mine.”

Arthur had the decency to look embarrassed at his accusation.

They stood face to face, swords width apart, and Ashara knew she would have to deescalate the situation before one did something they would regret.

“Enough. I am going _Lord_ Dayne, are you pleased now?” She asked satirically.

“I’ll be pleased when you start acting like a respectable lady,” he growled.

His statement reopened old wounds and she was winded by it.

Although the words never actually fell from his lips, the implications were there. She was no lady, rather a dirty creature he was ashamed of.

“And whose negligence made me this way?” She countered viciously.

His words were a trigger flicked, and beneath the anger, lay deep hurt and fear. Even though she knew what happened to her was not truly Arthur’s fault, she still wrestled with not placing blame at his feet. Thus, instead of being the strong woman she wanted to be, she returned to the frightened child within, damaged and afraid, the one still hidden in the dark, waiting for her brother to save her.

Regret passed over his features as the accusation landed.

“Asha, I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t worry brother, I won’t stain your perfect Elia with my debauched ways.”

She left no moment for a response and without sparing a single glance for him, she fled the scene, abandoning him looking dumbfound and guilty.


	19. Cleanse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bonds that tie relationships are unwound and re-established in near ceremonious ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

** Cleanse **

After Oberyn and Ashara disappeared _again_ , it was Elia that talked Arthur down from pursuing the troublesome pair.

Arthur and Oberyn had come to blows many times regarding young Ashara. Whilst it was never more serious than bruised egos, this day, Elia feared the Sword of the Morning might just kill her brother.

“That is my sister’s honour!”

Elia chased after him as he stormed toward the direction Ashara was last seen heading in.

“Arthur it is not what you think.”

Just days after she confessed her own feelings of love for one of the Dayne siblings, Oberyn revealed his own declarations. Her untameable indulgent brother, uttered things never once spoke of before; love, marriage, duty. 

“I know Ashara flirts with every pretty thing in sight, but Princess, we both know your brother.”

Elia knew her brother’s proclivity for promiscuity, but she also understood the depth of his feelings for Ashara.

“What of it? If they are fond of one another, then they shall marry. It would make both of our mothers overjoyed... and shouldn’t _some_ of us marry for love?”

He whipped around shocked at her words.

“ _Love?_ Just last week there were rumours of a pregnant whore in Oldtown. I will not have my sister end up as nothing more than another mother of his bastards.”

His eyes were a stormy blue in his anger.

“If you think I would allow that then you do not know me at all.”

Elia cared for Ashara as much as her brother. If they could find joy together then she too would be delighted, despite the peculiar feeling it rattled in her chest. 

“You and I both know Ashara has been acting strangely as of late.”

Arthur sighed tiredly and ran a hand through his messy dark locks.

“I suppose she has taken her wilfulness more adamantly than usual. But- is that not Oberyn’s influence?”

Elia raised a brow in response.

The only person that could convince Ashara of doing anything was Ashara herself, and sometimes Elia.

“She is a maiden coming into herself. Her body is going through changes, her emotions are heightened, her intelligence and consciousness are at a point where she can analyse her past with clarity. She must figure some things out for herself.”

Arthur was in denial and he knew so too.

“However, she is not doing it alone, she has chosen Oberyn. I admit this is not so much to do with your brother. It is about Ashara. Men will come and go, but I will _always_ be the constant.”

Arthur sought to be whatever his sister needed, he played parent, brother, friend and foe all at once. It was forcing them apart more than welding them together.

“You cannot be everything for her, as much as you wish to be.”

“Why not?”

At times he was just as stubborn as his wild little sister. His pouted lip almost amused Elia, if it were not for the lost look in his eyes.

“You are suffocating her. She needs to breathe. It will do neither of you any good if you treat her as fragile glass or a constricting hand around her neck, preventing her from making her own choices.”

Arthur slumped down the wall demoralised.

“It is my duty to protect her.”

“And you are. Oberyn is not a threat, he loves her, and more than that, I think she _needs_ something she can’t find within us. Whatever it is she seeks; he can likely give it to her.”

Arthur looked up at her curiously, like something was on the tip of his tongue, but like always, Arthur did not reveal his thoughts entirely. 

“And I cannot stop it,” he settled on.

Elia nodded.

“It would be exceedingly difficult to force her away from him now. It would only lead to her resenting you.”

His eyes glistened with unshed tears and Elia settled beside him.

“Sometimes I think she already resents me – for my failure to protect her, for being a Dayne… probably despises herself for it too.” He revealed in an exhausted whisper.

Their bond was far more complicated than Elia had with her brothers. Doran was too many years her senior to be so close to. Oberyn was once her counterpart, but now they sought out their own loves and passions, with each other’s support. Whereas Arthur and Ashara were connected by a convoluted inextricable bond as complicated as the starry night’s sky, forged by blood, love and duty.

“You know, when you were away, she punched Leor Wyl square in the jaw when he spoke ill of you. Those are not the actions of someone who resents her brother.”

Elia finally managed to pull out a small smile from him. Although, a dark shadow crossed his brows after.

“Back home, our parents showed us that it is possible to love and hate all at the same time.”

“It is a good thing you are not in Starfall anymore then.”

Arthur reached out for her hand and she took it easily.

“You know, when we were younger, our father was unfaithful to the Princess...”

Few outside those involved knew what happened. Elia and Oberyn had been devastated that their hero father could do such a thing, love another deceitfully behind their mother’s back. She still remembered the way the warrior-woman and knight fought to bloody messes; she was sure her mother was going to kill him that day. It was the one thing they no longer discussed in Sunspear, once all was forgiven it was never mentioned again.

“...it tore the family apart before the Princess’ forgiveness put us back together again. So, where you have your unbreakable vows, Oberyn and I have codes of honesty.”

When Oberyn turned from innocent boy to curious prince, she sat him down and they made promises of honesty and faithfulness to those they loved. They would not cause heartbreak like their father, and even if they were to take paramours, it would be done in acceptance and respect of their lovers.

“So, you needn’t worry about Oberyn, I would cut off his favourite appendage myself if he ever hurt our dear Ashara.”

Arthur laughed then, anger distinguished and dark thoughts a distant memory in his eyes.

After, she left briskly, and when she happened upon Oberyn and Ashara, she eavesdropped upon a curious conversation.

“We can stop.” Oberyn urged.

“Ashara –”

“I don’t want to stop. I want you to kiss me...and put your arms around me. _Please_.”

It was a near beg, and her small voice reminded Elia of the innocent girl she met years ago.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know you won’t hurt me. You – and Elia – you saved me... I, I – I want to try again.”

Elia didn’t intend to listen so long, only wished to assure Arthur and herself that Oberyn was as gallant as Ser Galladon of Morne, as she had insisted. Except, concern kept her hovering at the door, deliberating on entering, and not out of a lack of faith in her brother. 

“This is not what you want... I’m not _her_.”

For a moment, Elia pondered who the ‘her’ could be, and waited for confirmation that she entirely misread Ashara’s behaviour, and there was instead a young maiden that had broken her heart, and somehow she missed it.

However, the answer never came.

“You don’t want me you mean!” Ashara snapped.

Elia should have expected the anger. Ashara was raised as sun-fire and felt all things to the extremes.

“It is an honour that you would try this with me, but I am worried about you.” Oberyn explained.

“The prince of indulgence seeks honour from naught but pleasure. I don’t believe you.”

“Asha, yes, it is my nature to indulge but I also _love_ you.”

“And is it nature to love damaged dirty maids?”

Elia’s heart sank, even after all this time, Ashara regarded herself as someone contaminated with something that tainted everything. She wished to cure the hurt inside of her as badly as she wished to cure her own ailments.

“I do love you. Which is why I can’t watch you force yourself to do something you evidently do not want or are not ready to do.”

Oberyn confirmed himself the gentleman Elia always knew he was. Yet, there was little time for pride when she could literally feel Ashara’s anguish through the door.

“Ashara, you have nothing to prove to me.” 

“I have something to prove to myself! I do not want to be as broken as I am.” 

Ashara’s words revealed something frightening bubbling beneath her surface, and Elia was at a loss to how she had missed this too.

“I don’t believe you want me to be the one to fix you. I am nothing like Elia. I don’t know how to quell your darkest demons and most violent storms; try as I might.”

“I can’t ask this of Elia, she has already given me so much. I can’t always be hers and Arthur’s burden, they deserve happiness too.”

It all fell into place then. It was Elia that Oberyn had been referring to, and it was Elia Ashara truly needed all this time. Too swept up in notions of infatuations with the golden star, she had failed to notice the amethyst one.

Thus, Elia entered at the call of her name. Ashara was covered with sheets shielding her nakedness and back turned away from Oberyn.

“You underestimate how much I care for you, my _dearest_ Ashara.” She reassured.

Oberyn looked up at her at a loss and she signalled him to leave them be. Elia meant what she promised all those years ago, she would protect her from all manner of demon; both real and imagined.

She moved to the bed and knelt beside Ashara, who was curled up like a newborn babe.

Elia waited until their gazes met to speak, “You are not dirty, Asha.”

“I feel dirty.” She admitted.

Ashara was expressionless and her voice flat when she responded.

Elia reached out and grasped her hand. She pressed a kiss to the heel of Ashara’s soft palm, to the inside of her wrist, along the faded scars of long ago. 

“You do not taste dirty,” She continued, as she climbed to the bed and wrapped around the shaking girl.

Elia pressed her face to her neck before inhaling gently.

“You do not smell dirty.”

She turned a dimpled chin so Ashara could see her scan over her body slowly.

“You do not look dirty, either. Would you like to know what I see?”

Ashara nodded.

“I see a beautiful smile, a bonny button nose, stunning eyes, and blinding light behind...”

She tapped each feature affectionately as she spoke.

“...Beyond the physical, I see a tender heart like mine, strength, talent, care, life and love. And though you think you _need_ Arthur and I; it is not true, you could survive without us too...”

Violet eyes simply stared back, a desperation for Elia’s words behind them like she was holding the keys to the skies.

“...There is nothing dirty about you, my dearest.”

She wished to rip the dead guard limb from limb and watch his death all over again. Elia understood exactly where this self-loathing stemmed from. It was all related, her nightmares, her erratic behaviour, her searching.

Ashara kept her gaze and blinked slowly a few times. Eventually, Elia saw acceptance in that what she was saying was truth.

“Why am I this way?” Her voice broke with the admission.

Elia saw that this was a question that had been peeling at her skin and clawing at her heart for the past weeks.

She observed tortured starry eyes, and with nothing but desire to see them laughing again she began to unclasp the links to her gown, before dropping it lightly to the floor.

Ashara stared, confused, with cheeks the colour of blood oranges.

“Wh-what are you doing Princess?”

Ashara’s eyes bounced from Elia’s face to the dress thrown astray and the high palace ceiling.

“ _We_ are going to wash away the dirt. I will cleanse you of your demons so that you might see the beauty I see. I am not talking of your pretty features, though they are the prettiest in all the Kingdoms, I am talking of the _star_ light inside.”

She needed Ashara to know the grime of the past could be washed away. She needed to know she was worthy and that not all would abuse her, and certainly never Elia. 

Elia called a servant to the door to pour them water. When the bath was prepared, Elia led Ashara to the water as she had done that night, and together they sat in the tub.

The water was as cool as the Dornish nights Ashara enjoyed. Though it bought a near chatter to Elia’s teeth, her delicate bones so susceptible to chill, it was worth it to see some tension release from Ashara’s shoulders.

With the washcloth, she ran over her skin; between her fingers, up her back, across her arms and face. It was a revitalising ritual that Elia prayed with every movement for it lave away the dark memories and darker plaguing thoughts.

Ashara’s head rested against Elia’s shoulder and when she felt her shake with tears, she was sure whatever she had intended was working.

“Ashara, it is time to speak what happened to you and let it go, do not let it steal anymore from you.”

Terror-filled violet eyes found hers, and despite her beauty she looked more like a child now than she had ever done before. 

“Speak.”

Elia nodded in encouragement.

“ ~~He~~ _Igon_ hurt me.”

A quiet fell again but Elia did not concern herself, she knew the rest of the words would follow.

“He stole my innocence and extinguished my light.” Ashara admitted suddenly, causing Elia to move and look her in the eyes.

“I remember everything about that night. I screamed for my brother to rescue me and he never came. I prayed for mother to fix it or – or soothe it, and instead Lady Dayne _silenced_ me.”

“Look at me.” Ashara sobbed, the tears flowing against her will.

Elia did, unafraid of what Ashara thought to be sullied. 

“Look at what he made me. I allowed him to change me...” There was a quiet rage in her voice uncommon to the usual explosive inferno. Though this one seemed hotter.

“...I allowed him to make me into a shadow and I had to turn into someone else.”

“He did not change you. To cope, you did what you had to.” Elia answered.

“My name is Ashara _Dayne_. I hated that _child_ so much that I ran away and became someone else. I became Lady Ashara of House Martell.”

Understanding dawned for Elia. To her, Ashara had become family by love, but to Ashara, she become family fleeing from a broken one. She assimilated herself so completely in efforts to run away from the powerless girl she was.

Elia tightened her grip on Ashara’s hand.

“As much as I see you as one of us, as sun-fire, you are starborn and that is perfectly acceptable. It does not change anything. You can be Lady Ashara of House Dayne. Your heritage does not have to be buried because you were let down. You have the blood of Clarisse Dayne running through you. The proud Lady of Starfall who dismissed a proposal from King Maegor the Cruel for the freedom of Dorne. Be proud.”

Ashara nodded as she made amends with herself.

“In life, there are things that happen that we cannot stop or return or change, either. But we must not allow them get under our skin and live there to define us.”

Elia released one hand to wipe at the falling tears. Still, Ashara looked as if her words were the most important thing she had ever heard.

“He did not break you. You can love life despite the bad things that happen. We can still indulge and take and _live.”_

Ashara released a breath so sharp it was like she had been holding it for years, and Elia suspected she probably had.

That same night, they laid silently in bed with Elia curled around Ashara, who had been quiet for hours, moonlight streaming in through the wide-open windows. Elia felt an energy between them, and she was almost certain something had changed. She was unsure what, but it did not matter if her dearest Ashara was well.

“He did not break me.” Ashara confirmed softly into the dark.

“No, my dearest, he did not...”

Ashara’s fingers laced with her own.

“...and Ashara?”

“Yes?”

“If you ever call yourself my burden again, I shall ship you right back to Starfall from whence you came.” She said half-jesting but also gravely serious.

“Just you try and get rid of me now. My place is by your side, Princess.”


	20. Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur pursues his lost title.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur.

For years, after Arthur’s title and sword were ripped away, he dreamt of the day they would be returned to him. The day he was truly worthy, for only in Ashara’s eyes did it matter if he was.

While Ashara had grown independent, and with each day needed him less, he felt stagnant. He was left behind as he watched his compeers move on and make something of themselves. The boys he grew up with in Sunspear, returned to their homes to be Lords, knights, captains and travellers. While he was still chasing after his sister, and little else.

He was a man grown and felt ready to finally pursue a path toward the Kingsguard. It was all he dreamt of as a child; to be a recognised knight of the highest order. There was a burning desire, just below the surface of his golden skin, to make a mark in the histories. He did not want to be a Sword of the Morning with an empty chapter. 

There remained some guilt stemming from his failures, and although it was forgiven history, his vow to Ashara was inviolable. She was his duty, and only when _she_ decided he was worthy would he be. Therefore, until Ashara agreed, he would not leave her for his dreams. His fate was in her hands. 

From their first day in Sunspear, Ashara had pushed him through trial after trial to prepare him for Dawn. She asserted that her scrutiny was to forge the strongest knight and elevate him to the most renown Sword of the Morning to ever live.

At first, her tests were small. She examined his will and vows to her. She would put herself in danger, such as climbing the highest walls of Sunspear or drifting out alone in the Summer Sea. Despite his uneasiness with heights, he climbed after her and carried her back. At sea, he swam out, and again, carried her back. Just as Arthur swore, his resolve was as strong as steel, and he was _always_ there to rescue her from danger. 

Ashara tested his strength and prowess. She organised duels against any lord, sellsword, knight or warrior that was of famed skill. Lord Trebor Jordayne, T’cha the Undefeated Panther, Ser Rollo of Bear Island; even the legendary former Slaver’s Bay pit-fighter, Spartys Rainbringer. Arthur won all the challenges, and with each success, the reputation of Arthur Steelstar, the untouchable Sword of the Morning, grew.

‘It was only a matter of time,’ Elia would say, and every single day, every single test, Arthur proved himself to his sister.

 _‘I am ready for Dawn,’_ he thought to himself incessantly.

For Ashara, the keeper of Dawn, she was not swept up in the notions of her brother’s success and repute. Each time he asked for Dawn, she refused. The first time, it was days after he duelled Oberyn to first blood. In response to his win, she spun her honeyed tongue and convinced him better of it. He had been desperate and wide-eyed, and she laughed him off easily enough.

“Oh, Arthur! Ask me again, when you have proven yourself with something of worth,” She had said, with her head thrown back in total amusement. 

The last time Arthur asked, was days after he won every event of the Dornish annual melee.

“Ashara please, I am ready now, I want- ” he begged.

“Is that so? How can I be certain that your wants have not been directed by the sweet promises of glory and position?”

Ser Lewyn had come again and offered him a chance at stewardship, a road to the Kingsguard.

“You have witnessed my skill sister, seen that I have given everything to this. It is time to return Dawn to me.”

Even aged four and ten, Ashara had developed a fiery temper that shook those under her hard violet gaze. 

“Dawn is just a sword...” She repeated their father’s words from long ago.

“...And you might be able to wield it. Though, you are not yet worthy of the title and the duty that comes with it. The Sword of the Morning protects and serves House Dayne and House Dayne alone. As soon as you take up the mantle, you will be whisked away to Kings Landing and turned into a cold northern knight and forget all about us! Is that the greater purpose you seek?”

Her scowl had been harsh, and he still recalled how even in her smaller stature, she had made him flinch with the force of her words.

“You are no Sword of the Morning, but you are my brother, and I am your home. Stay here or leave to Kings Landing with no sword to speak of. You have not shown me that you are ready.”

Although he was vexed for weeks, he had accepted her words. If she said he was not ready, then he was not ready and would continue preparing himself for the unknown final test.

Therefore, when Ashara came to him a year later with opportunity, one which felt different from all the others, he propelled himself towards the task.

“Do you wish to prove yourself for Dawn, dear brother?”

Ashara came to him with all laughter gone from her eyes and an uncommon frown across her features.

A stone settled in the young dornishman’s stomach. 

“You know I am.”

Ashara’s final test came in the form of leading the Princess Furiosa’s forces in a dispute between the siblings of House Ladybright. Ashara had spun her wicked-tongue and elevated Arthur to his position because Lady Lane Ladybright and her husband were to be deposed. Arthur’s heart sank when her realised that the husband of Lady Lane was none other than his exiled cousin, Vorian Dayne.

Only a year previous, whispers of Vorian’s ascent to a Dornish knight and marriage the heir to the Scorched Rock had reached Sunspear. Arthur recalled the pride which swelled in his chest when he realised Vorian had carved a path for himself and become something in his own right. Especially when their parting words remained fresh in his mind.

_‘I know you will do and become something great. Let that be your vengeance and one day the entire realm, from Dorne to beyond the North, will recognise the great knight that is as worthy as Sword of the Morning.’_

However, now they would stand on opposite sides of the battlefield.

Vorian had taken his words as gospel and become the feared Vorian _Vengeancestar,_ Warrior of Mother Rhoyne. Rumours spoke of a self-elevated would-be diviner that united the orphans of the Greenblood, a warrior _chosen_ by the Mother herself to return the children of the Rhoynar home. Had he not made attempts on the other Houses of Dorne, and made promises to rebuild Ny Sar, the ruined city of _his_ ancestor Nymeria, their paths may not have converged in such a way. 

Vorian’s actions were treasonous at best.

Guilt swirled in Arthur as he remembered how he had failed his kin before. He stood by and watched Vorian exiled like an unwanted pet. He too was a son of Dayne, and despite it all, it was his duty to protect him.

He thought of the pillars and virtues of Sword of the Morning. Who was Arthur supposed to be loyal to when his house had cast out their own, and Dorne demanded him removed?

Where was the justice for the forgotten son?

Arthur wondered if his mother’s actions had not created the very monster she warned him of. He was trapped between a rock and a hard place.

“What are we to do with Ser Vorian?” Arthur wondered, as Princess Furiosa deliberated.

“Elia, Oberyn, it is your mission, what say you?”

“A dead man voices no prophecies.” Oberyn answered.

Oberyn was as thirsty for blood as the vipers he tamed. Arthur prepared himself to plead, beg upon bended knee if need be, to the stubborn prince.

“If I might, my Princess –”

Arthur interrupted carefully. He knew it was only because of his sister’s honey tongue that there was any consideration of him at all. He was a guest and no royal son, but he could not be silent again.

“Only – If you might allow me first to attempt discussion with him, for a bloodless surrender. I know my kin and he can be reasoned with, I did it once, I can do it again.”

Oberyn tutted and rolled his eyes.

“If you had killed him before, all of this would have been avoided.”

Oberyn wanted a rise out of him. Instead, Arthur clenched his jaw and ignored the provoking prince and continued his plea.

“He is a lost son of Dayne. I am positive that my brother, as Lord of Starfall in all but name, would allow him home... and he would renounce all false oracle.” He explained.

Oberyn sniggered before Arthur had even finished his final word.

“I would be careful trying to negotiate, if you want this dispute over you will have to end it with blood.”

The prince slithered up to Arthur and studied his eyes intently.

“Oberyn,” Elia warned.

“You are still so _soft._ ” He taunted.

“I am not soft! I am a Sword of the Morning and none of us have ever been soft. Yet, it would not do to be quick to blood.”

“Without Dawn you are nothing more than a knight with a fancy name.”

“Enough! What is your decision?” Furiosa scolded.

“Words are fine, but they do not win battles. Ser Vorian wages war.” Oberyn answered.

“Perhaps there is some merit in negotiation. The death of Vengencestar would make him a martyr to the Greenblood orphans, and we need no more trouble from them. A dead would-be holy man voices only prophecies.” Elia countered.

Arthur was knighted after the last bloody dispute with the orphans of the Greenblood. Prince consort Lord Oto had violently and effectively driven the orphans back into the river. Arthur knew they still burned for revenge against the Martell’s.

“You raise a good point, but the orphans have never wanted this land. Perhaps we might rid ourselves of them and have his death be the action that drives them to the home they so wish to return to.” Oberyn added.

The Princess rose with a groan, another reminder of her growing age and weakening bones. It was evident she sent them to manage this dispute because she wanted to ensure her children were prepared to step into their roles when she was gone.

“Then it is decided. Arthur you will attempt negotiations. If you are unsuccessful, then battle it is and his head on the pointy end of that famous sword of yours.”

Ashara had truly prepared a test for him, and there was more than a sword on the line.

Despite the rumours about Vorian, Arthur had faith. Vorian was not shown mercy for nothing, he was spared to live so that a new dawn could be had. Arthur failed him once and he would not do it again. He would never wet his sword with the blood of a Dayne.

Thus, when the Dayne bannermen were called and the royal party left, Arthur was determined to obey his Princess’ command and his duty to House Dayne; and sought his brother’s salvation by any means necessary. 


	21. The Scorched Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dayne's plead for their son to return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur.

When the Martell’s royal party was received by Lomas and Alyse Ladybright, Vorian’s kin had no kind words for him.

While Prince Oberyn and Princess Elia listened and assessed who would make a most loyal seignior, Arthur harkened intently to see what manner of a man his cousin had become.

“Vengeancestar murdered our father so that he could seize total power of our House and drove our sister to her delicateness.” Lomas explained.

“What kind of ruler is Ser Vorian?” Arthur wondered.

The siblings shared a long dark look before any explanation came.

“He talks of himself as if a god and kills any who might oppose him. He has flooded our home with those wretched orphans and pleases himself with their heathen practices. We are of Dorne, there is no passage back up the river, no land for us. This is home, our ancestors chose Nymeria and we honour their decisions.” Alyse detailed.

Eventually, the Martell forces marched up to the imposing gates of the Scorched Rock. The castle balanced on the edge of the highest canyon, at the mouth of the Greenblood river. The walls were famously impenetrable and constructed of robust black stones reinforced by the sun’s heat. Although it was not the contrasting black stones against the reddish sand backdrop that gave the stronghold its name. Formerly, the Bright Rock, was renamed Scorched Rock after the First Dornish War when the Targaryen’s burnt every Dornish castle, save Sunspear, to near destruction, and this small castle had burnt bright but never crumbled. Furthermore, on the back end, the castle overlooked the river and orphan farming settlements, subsequently meaning there was only one road to the high gates, and a single way in or out alive.

Arthur felt treacherous sat atop his golden stallion, leading a phalanx of House Dayne bannermen. Many of the soldiers who stood with him had grown up with Vorian, been his neighbours and friends; and now they stood as enemies.

Still, Arthur rode closer to the gate. At his flanks came Prince Oberyn and Aethan Dayne. 

When he caught sight of Vorian, overlooking the small force at the rampart of the castle wall, he saw a man with no traces of the boy he once was in the scarred lines of his face. A permanent half-smile graced Vorian’s features, but in his emerald eyes, there remained the heartbreak of years ago. It pained Arthur to know that he was again the bearer of his anguish.

“Welcome to my home, Prince Oberyn, House Dayne!” He declared contemptuously.

Oberyn and Aethan nodded in acknowledgment.

Vorian’s gaze found Arthur and a near-grin spread across his grotesque face.

“Arthur Steelstar, Sword of the Morning.”

It appeared that Vorian was glad to see him, and despite the situation, Arthur was too. Something about witnessing him donned in his Dayne-purple tunic and the helm Arthur gifted him, gave hope that the once honour-seeking cousin could be redeemed. 

“It is not right that the sons of Dayne and Ladybright should try and slaughter each other. Vorian, _brother_ , let us discuss and let there be no blood spilled today or any other.” Arthur implored.

Vorian’s gaze hardened.

“Ah, so you are here to join me then, to rid me of my wife’s would-be usurping siblings... and recognise me as your equal?” He asked sardonically.

Green eyes wandered about Arthur’s person, searching for _Dawn_. Though he did not find it, instead he saw _Mercy_ , and his eyes flashed with hatred.

“I am here on duty. I beseech you to renounce this castle and your mission with the Greenblood orphans. The Princess sees your actions as treason. It cannot continue, you must know this. Open the gates and surrender and you will walk away with your life. There is an honest future for you, but this is not the greatness you should seek.”

Vorian let out a chilling cackle. Although he had always been prone to smiling and laughing in all situations, there was something darker in his humourless laughter now.

“And if I don’t?”

Arthur looked back at his armed forces, there was little mistake in the intention of their party.

“I will be forced to remove you and finish what many believed I should have done years ago.”

It was not a threat, only truth.

All traces of a smile disappeared and even the grim permanent gleeful scar etched across his face seemed to frown.

“Then perhaps you should have when you had the opportunity.”

“Is this truly what you want, brother?” Arthur asked.

“You are in the wrong- ”

“I’m in the wrong?” He yelled incredulously. 

A tension rained upon them with the change of his mood. Vorian’s men held on tighter to their bows, and Arthur heard the neighing of the steeds behind him.

“ _Me?_ I am the dishonourable, yet it is you that has come to MY home and threatened me with battle to destroy everything I have built. My own kin, here to treat me as the enemy...”

He took a long look at each of the Dayne soldiers with disgust.

“...and you, Sword of the Morning _,_ fighting against the very person you should be _protecting_. You once spoke of a vicious cycle of death; me against my kin-” 

“My kin and I against our enemies.” Arthur finished.

He had not forgotten; he did not forget any of his failings.

“Then tell me, who is the true enemy here?”

Something in Vorian’s gesticulating movements and wide wild eyes stirred something uneasy inside Arthur. There was a terrifying darkness radiating from even a hundred yards away.

“The man who presents himself as a false prophet and seeks chaos in Dorne. The man who murders for power and lies and glory.”

Vorian snarled like a feral animal.

“You believe the words of would-be usurpers and a lost Princess that bows to dead dragons who whisper empty promises, and begs to sell her children away to lions because the blood of the Rhoynar is not good enough...”

“If you wish to die Ser Vorian, come down here and let me show your end!” Oberyn warned, as his fist tightened around his spear.

Arthur wished Vorian had not spoken ill of the Princess, the comments would not be easily forgiven by the Oberyn anytime soon. 

“The people of Dorne suffer, there is no home for us here. No, I am not the enemy.” Vorian spat out the words with such fervour that all became silent as they witnessed him.

The lost son of Dayne. Arthur’s heart sank.

_‘Surrender and I vow to always treat and recognise you as my equal.’_

Arthur would never again be an oathbreaker and thus offered another, in remembrance of the first.

“If you surrender now, I swear on all that I hold dear, on my _sister_ , on _Dawn_ , that I will help you find a way home, a way back to the stars.” Arthur’s voice shook with desperation; that and fear. 

It was evident in his cousin’s expression, that he remembered Arthur’s last vows too.

“If I surrender will we be as brothers, as _equals?_ ” Vorian mocked.

“I have heard such oaths before Steelstar, and they were empty words then just as they are now.”

Arthur was weak before, allowing his mother to make such a terrible mistake, but he was not that boy anymore.

“I am no oathbreaker.”

“And I will never again surrender.”

Despite the hatred burning in emerald eyes, Arthur did not believe there was no hope, that he had been merciful to his kin for nothing.

“To come home is no surrender. I would stand at your side.” Arthur explained.

“When my kin cast me away, and the Seven abandoned me, it was to Mother Rhoyne’s arms I ran...”

An eruption of hollers from of a small legion of men at the furthest tier away from Arthur sounded.

“Cheeva! Cheeva! Rhoyhi!”

It was a language Arthur did not understand, but knew it was the forbidden language Rhoynish. He saw the distinct antediluvian Rhoynar robes and recognised it was the orphans who cheered him.

There was little love between the orphans and the Dornish Houses. To the Ladies and Lords of Dorne, they were a people lost to the past, and to the orphans the rest of Dorne had lost their past. Although, he once fought against them, Arthur could understand why Vorian found solace with them. 

“...It is my Rhoynar blood that has elevated me. I only seek to take our people home from impending doom as Nymeria did, not for glory or for anything as trivial as in the name of House Dayne.” He spoke in a pleading tone.

Vorian had succumbed to arrogance before, but now there was something different in him. Arthur considered if this was no act at all, and he truly believed himself a prophet.

“Doom, what doom? Vorian, you can’t believe this.”

“The Mother’s waters tell stormy tales of a coming great war.” He explained.

“Cheeva! Cheeva! Rhoyhi!” Chanted the orphans again, this time with a sense of doom in their voices.

“Then we shall fight for our home and people, until the very last man, for the land Nymeria chose and the land our Dayne ancestors followed a fallen star for.” Arthur countered.

A vague prophecy of war was no prophecy at all. War had been waged across the Seven Kingdoms and in Dorne since before the Rhoynar arrived. Arthur did not believe it as anything more than Vorian’s misguided ambition. Still, he could not give up on him.

“I don’t deny that I was starborn. But I can’t forget that I fell at the hands of my kin, and so I was reborn to bring a new dawn. I was reborn Vengeancestar, the Warrior of Mother Rhoyne, a man who needs no weapon but the Mother’s faith... far greater than Sword of the Morning.”

He might have believed Vorian’s conviction if it all did not come back to Dawn. It was with this Arthur understood Dawn was just a sword, and truly comprehended that the man who wielded it must be the worthy.

“Blood is above all. I know we failed you and there is no greater pain than heartbreak at the hands of those who were meant to be there for you...”

Arthur thought to Ashara then, how she had been let down by her family too. Just as Arthur was there for her, he would be there for Vorian because that was the duty of the Sword of the Morning; to protect his house and keep his family whole.

“...but if you might let the past go, I can show you that the bond of blood is our greatest strength.” Arthur poured out passionately.

Vorian stilled and his face dropped a fraction. Arthur saw opportunity. 

“Lord Dayne!” He called Aethan.

“You are the regent of Starfall, could you welcome Vorian home, a son of Dayne?”

“Yes, let there be no battle and we will return as one House. All will be forgiven cousin.” Aethan answered immediately.

Vorian was silent a while, and Arthur observed him deliberating. It was long enough to know his brother was still there underneath it all.

“Only if you publicly renounce all you have done, in the name of the Mother. You will offer apology to our Princess and then you can return to your home.” Oberyn interrupted.

If Vorian had been considering it, Oberyn’s words swayed him back to his resolve.

Green eyes narrowed and a counterfeit grin pulled at his cheeks.

“I am a homeless orphan. I was castaway, so I searched for a new a family and now I have it. I will take them home. You all can stay in this forsaken land, and serve your wretched House Dayne and cowardice Princess Furiosa and rot for all I care...”

He seemed to touch the souls of every man in the Dayne legion. There was an uneasiness and shame that spread like wind around them.

“... House Dayne is no longer my kin.”

When he gazed at Arthur, the stare he gave was chilling.

“Then you have made your decision to die by the sword, and we will spare none of your orphaned bredrin.” Oberyn hissed with a tone of finality, as he turned his black sand steed.

“Vorian-”

“We have said all that needs to be said... _Brother_.” Vorian spat before he too turned out of sight.

By the end of their conclave, it was clear that in the wake of Vorian’s banishment, he had sought out violent glory and lost himself to it.

Arthur came to realise it was _he_ who set his path.

_‘People will underestimate you... make them pay for it... be ruthless.’_

Only, Arthur had no idea it was he himself that would come to underestimate him.

Thus, despite the failed negotiations, it gave him more motivation to seek his cousin’s redemption and help elevate him to his originally intended path; that of a worthy true knight.


	22. A Final Plea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur negotiates with his kin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur.

Arthur spoke no more of negotiations when tactics to claim the Scorched Rock were planned. Instead, when darkness came and the others retired, he fled their camp in pursuit of final pleas with his cousin. 

As he arrived at the gates, arrows reigned down at his feet to prevent him coming any closer.

“In good faith, I would speak to Ser Vorian. I am not here to fight with you.”

Arthur removed his sword and scabbard and laid them on the ground.

After several moments, the gate crept ajar before a coterie of the Ladybright guards yanked him inside. He was bound by the hands and escorted through to their great hall where a young woman sat with a babe in her arms. The woman had skin as dark as the rocks of the castle and Dornish bronze eyes; and although she looked somewhat bedraggled, when she looked up, Arthur noticed how _lovely_ she was.

“Ser Arthur, I am Lady Lane Ladybright, I wish to hear what you have to say.”

Her voice was soft and somehow exactly as he expected and equally not. There seemed to be no visible indication of her rumoured fragility, only intrigue at Arthur’s presence.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady... although, I would have preferred to meet my goodsister under different circumstances.” He answered honestly.

“Yes, I agree. Mayhaps a tourney or banquet might have been better.” She answered lightly.

Arthur let out a humourless laugh at her unexpected statement.

“Ser Axell, release those chains from Ser Arthur, we would discuss as civilised people.”

His hands were unbound as she passed him over wine, above the stirring babe.

“He looks much like Vorian.” Arthur commented as he looked at the babe with all his father’s features and smiling hazel eyes.

Lane stared down with a lost expression. Her quiet lasted so long Arthur was unsure if she was going to respond.

“Yes, I suppose little Art is more starborn than brightborn.”

Her bronze eyes met his and strangely, Arthur felt as though he knew her and she him. He supposed it was their shared connection to Vorian. It was an unexplainable sensation, but he did not dwell on it too long and instead finally comprehended why she looked up at him with a knowing smile.

“Art, as in –”

“Arthur Dayne.”

Vorian had named his son after him. Arthur was almost certain there was hope for reconciliation.

“What is your desired outcome of this dispute, my lady?”

He had a sudden desperate need to protect Vorian and his family.

“The Princes’ party would sooner see all of you dead for Vorian’s treason. You cannot truly agree with this.” Arthur explained further.

“My husband is a broken but ambitious man Ser. I think that is what we saw in one another; shattered souls running on hopeful dreams. I married him because we wanted to make a life unburdened by our pasts. I have supported him in all he has done but I didn’t expect this, I didn’t expect him to wage a war for it... You ask me what I want?”

Arthur nodded as she explained.

“I wish for my husband to be free from his pain. I wish for peace in my home. Ser Arthur, if you wish for this to be over, it will be because he has forgiven you, not because House Dayne has forgiven _him_...” 

There was an admirable loyalty in her words, although he could tell she was tired from the chaos in her home.

“...but I fear he has wandered too far down this path to ever turn back, and even if he should survive with his life, he will only seek to make the world ablaze all the more.” She warned.

Again, their gazes met in that ensnared way, in the stillness that had embraced them.

“I will never stop striving for his redemption and reconciling our family.” Arthur confessed.

“Then you are a sentimental fool... and a greater fool for coming here tonight.”

When Vorian appeared behind Lane, the entire energy of the room shifted from something warm to a thick air of hostility.

“Who is the fool? The man who seeks to make his family whole or the one that pushes away the very thing he searches for.”

Vorian tenderly stroked his wife’s hand and kissed the babe in her arms before sitting beside her. Arthur watched their exchange with curiosity. The fondness between them as she caressed his smiling scar, and he pecked her hand. In here, with his family, he was not the fearsome knight Arthur witnessed standing atop the castle walls.

“Ser Arthur pleads for a way out of all this madness we have created. I believe he is the only one that has our best interests at heart. Perhaps we should consider compromise.” Lane spoke.

Vorian’s emerald eyes carefully studied her then Arthur.

“What is it about my golden cousin that always inspires such instant adoration?” He asked rhetorically, voice turning cold with envy.

“Of the two us, it is clear that you amass such adoration too. The orphans of the Greenblood have never loved a Dornishman so much as to fight for him.”

Little Arthur began to fuss in Lane’s arms and so she took the opportunity to leave.

“Goodnight Ser.”

Arthur stood awkwardly in farewell as she left, with a final glance of her bronze eyes.

“My wife is quite a woman. Nothing of the lies they say of her.” Vorian said, watching him interestedly.

“Of that we can agree. You make a beautiful family.”

The two brothers stared at one another, taking in the new men they were.

“It is a pity you have chosen the wrong side cousin.” Vorian spoke honestly, all previous resentment dropped from in voice momentarily.

“It is my Princess’ will...”

The elder knight interrupted with a cold laugh.

“...yet, there doesn’t have to be a battle. I don’t want to fight or have to kill you. Do what is right and let your son live with a mother and father.”

Desperation soaked Arthur’s voice. He was eager to avoid bloodshed, and even more so to right the wrongs of the past.

“What kind of man would I be to my son if I continue to be the Dornish knight who always surrenders?”

The young knight sighed tiredly, and in the breath released it was clear he had not expected to go this far either.

“Please, you are my brother, return home with me.”

Vorian stood then, the crazed look of the fearsome knight returning to his eyes.

“For what? So I can remain in your shadow? For not a single soul to recognise who I am or that I _too_ am worthy?”

Vorian dropped all pretence, all roads led back to the battle for _Dawn_.

“If I returned, how long before your fawning adoration would steal away my wife, and before little Art would wish you his father instead of me? Who can compare to Sword of the Morning?” 

Vorian’s jealousy burned in emerald eyes.

“What other option is there? To die?” He answered trying to pacify Vorian’s growing anger.

“Everywhere I went after my banishment they treated me as if a wild dog. Your mercy might just have been a curse. Rhoynar and First men blood runs through my veins too. Perhaps death is the only solution.”

It was not clear whether he meant his own or Arthur’s.

“You can’t continue on this fanatic path that will surely only wage war within Dorne. How do you think this ends for Lane and little Art?”

The mention of his family made him falter for a moment.

“How could you be so monstrous?”

“I am not the monster in this story Arthur!”

The shout was a violence in the air, and he did not simply raise his voice, his muscles tensed and he approached close to Arthur’s face for maximum impact.

“I am the wronged, I am the castaway and forgotten. My own father wished me dead than surrendered. Tell me, when did anyone of our House ever stick up for me – when was I met with anything short of scorn at home?”

Vorian lent over the table and towered over Arthur.

“You got everything you wanted, and I got a family who didn’t care if I lived or died... and now you have chosen to stand against me and side with my enemies.”

There was something in his voice, a pain behind it. Arthur watched Vorian’s eyes. Then he knew. The rage was nothing but a shield for pain. He was a cornered knight lashing out with all manner of weapon, scared for his life, lonely, desperate.

“Brother-”

Commotion came from outside; a loud horn blowing distantly and sounds of running and shouting.

An orphan came rushing in and whispered something in Vorian’s ear. He ran his hands through his black hair in quick succession and fixed Arthur in a stare that could have frozen the Summer Sea.

“You call me brother in one breath and deceive me with the next.” 

There was no opportunity to explain that whatever was happening outside Arthur had no part in.

“No. You are _no_ brother of mine.”

Arthur’s heart sank further, for Vorian was as committed to his path of destruction as Arthur was committed to his of redemption.

“I-”

Before he could attempt on Vorian again, he signalled to his guard who ushered in more orphan warriors.

“We ought to send the Martell’s a message. Let their favoured knight bare that message. Have at it, brothers.”

The last thing Arthur saw, before his head was yanked back, was Vorian walk away.

His usually agile movements were too slow as six or seven or eight pairs of rough hands seized him. Although he was the best swordsman in Dorne he could not defend himself weapon-less against the onslaught of hits and pummels that rained down on him. The barrage of fists and boots were beatings on his skin and on his heart. The knowledge that his own brother could do such a thing broke something inside of him, something that would remain long after his skin and bones were healed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love all the comments! Let me know what you think x


	23. The Knight Ascends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment when preparation collides with opportunity. Arthur proves himself for Dorne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

The Scorched Rock had not yet fallen. More than a hundred of their knights were already dead and their strategy of surprise compromised; all because Arthur wanted another chance to plead to a fallen star.

Ashara was woken by her eldest brother, Aethan Dayne, to inform her Arthur slipped out under the cover of darkness.

Last they all discussed, everyone was of the same mind, regarding strategy of storming the castle. It was decided that there would be one attack from the front gates and another from the river. It was Elia’s brilliant strategy to build siege towers which would allow them to scale the canyon and climb the high walls of the Scorched Rock. Except, it was agreed upon to attack at dawn.

Instead, Arthur’s disappearance caused a complete upheaval of their plans. Oberyn organised an earlier attack, leading the majority in attempts to ram through the castle’s black iron gates. Aethan led at the back of the castle, using barely finished siege towers and endeavoured to climb the canyon.

Arthur’s reappearance, his body thrown into the river, led Aethan’s men into an ambush.

It was rumoured that Vorian was clever, although none had foreseen his expert military skills. He trapped Dayne soldiers in the water by a ring of fire, and a force of organised orphans emerged at the river brush and rained down on them with arrows.

In the end, Aethan abandoned the fighting to bring Arthur back, and at the loss of position, Oberyn retreated aswell.

It was not a loss yet, but victory was far in sight. Ashara did not need to leave her tent to know how demoralized their party was, she felt it in the quiet bristling of their movements, in between the yells of the injured and dying.

This was not what she expected when she pushed Arthur toward the task. Instead, he proved himself blinded by his naivety and hope, redemption and faith. Arthur had failed.

“He needs you.” Aethan spoke.

She was furious with Arthur, his actions had not only compromised their attack, but worse than that, he placed himself in danger.

Ashara feared what state she would receive him in and considered refusing, but looking in Aethan’s eyes, so much like Arthur’s, forced her to action. However, she was proven right to have been fearful when she walked into Arthur’s tent.

She could not recognise him from his hunched over gait. He stumbled as he attempted to move toward her. Her heart dropped through her feet at the sight. Arthur was a wet crimson mess. His left eye was swollen over, so much she doubted he could see a thing through it, and bloody spit drooled from his slack jaws. His arms were wrapped around his guts like he was holding them in, and he was beaten so bad he just might have been.

“Ash...”

When he tried to call her name, his cracked lips failed at the first syllable, but he did not need to, for Ashara was already on her feet and running.

“Oh Arthur.”

She was still angry with him but seeing him so battered momentarily extinguished her desire to scold him. Alternatively, she attempted to pull him into her arms, but he resisted, stepping away from her and feigning the ability to stand properly.

“What in seven hells possessed you to go out on your own?” Ashara asked, doing everything in her power to mask the fury bubbling inside of her. 

She bought a hand to Arthur’s bloody face, and when he flinched at the touch, she was ready to storm the castle herself and tear their cousin limb from limb. Arthur turned away in embarrassment. He had never lost a fight, although his damage did not look like a fight, more like an unfair assault. Still, it was clear he was trying to process the loss he never expected.

“I want him dead for this... I want them all dead I say!” Ashara yelled as rage seized her.

Aethan stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder and another on Arthur’s.

“If that is what you wish, I will see it done, sister.” Aethan answered.

Arthur waved in a stop signal.

“You...will...do...nothing...of- the sort.” He managed hoarsely. 

“You sustain for his redemption even though he very nearly killed you!” She snapped. 

Ashara did not know who to be more frustrated with; her naïve brother or her monstrous cousin. She herself had never forgiven Vorian for his attempted sabotage before the Witness. Of all the things she believed her mother to have done wrong, banishing him was not one of them.

“You are lucky to be alive-” Aethan began.

“Do you not think I know that?” Arthur asked incredulously.

If the exertion to talk was painful, he endured through it with nothing more than a wince.

“Clearly not, you have shown yourself to be weak... _soft._ ”

Ashara never argued with fists, though her words packed a powerful punch, and she could see in his eyes, they had met her target.

“I am not weak!” He yelled in a voice so loud the bustling outside their tent seemed to still.

“Prove it!” She goaded.

She knew that when tension was high, she should inject love instead of anger, give him an olive branch instead of enmity, but sometimes it was achingly difficult with Arthur. She so desperately wanted him to be who she imagined that she directed her anger at him. She had only ever wanted him to be who he dreamed of as a child. A strong, assured and mighty knight.

“You say you are tired of me testing you; prove to me, prove to Dorne and prove to yourself you are ready.” Her voice lost its venom and she suppressed her violent impulses.

Her eyes softened and she held out her hand as she observed Arthur inhale her words.

“Why do you fight so hard for this broken man?”

She was baffled by his resolute stance on Vorian’s redemption despite the violence which was unleashed upon him. 

“He is our kin and even though he has been wrong, how much is he to blame when it was mother’s actions and my words that set his course?”

He sighed jaggedly through his mouth and spat out blood onto the floor before his gaze met hers.

“You more than anyone, should understand that something broken can be mended. I don’t care if I lose blood on the way to salvation and I’ll fight with all that I have until we find an accord or until I die.”

Ashara studied his pain-stricken swollen eyes. Arthur was not so angry at Vorian but rather filled with guilt.

Her own relationship with Arthur had recovered from the failings and difficulties of the past, but only now she realised the depth of her brother’s care for his family. It felt like she was seeing him for the first time. Arthur felt immense guilt toward Vorian and her, and those experiences never left him. He had not forgiven himself for it.

“You continue to feel guilty for what happened.” Aethan also deduced.

“Vorian wants the world ablaze because his reward for dedicating his life to his kin and House was to be shunned and booted away. I was an enormous part of that. I owe it to him to rescue him, even from himself. For is that not the Sword of the Morning’s duty?”

Ashara had not known exactly what she wanted Arthur to prove when she set him the task. Only that when the moment materialized, she would recognise it, and it had arrived. Arthur proved his sole purpose was dedicated to his kin and House. Despite everyone working against him, he was committed to his purpose, and not because there was hope for glory at the end of it, not for a sword or title, but simply for the love of kin.

She was relieved. However, great sadness washed over her because it meant that it was time to let her brother go and seek out his own future.

“You are right. Kin above all.” Ashara admitted.

Arthur looked up at her then and she could see he also comprehended that his moment had arrived.

“What will you do?” Aethan asked.

“It was Lady Lane that saved me from being beaten to death. She aided my escape and for that I swore to protect her and her son Arthur. I gave her my word that I would end this dispute and that none of them shall be harmed. I would send them home brother.” He explained.

Oberyn barged in at that moment, followed by Elia who looked like she had just been convincing him out of something.

The prince stalked up to Arthur, and though he was the shorter man, Oberyn looked positively intimidating. Everyone could feel the heat of his anger radiating off him in waves.

“YOU MADE A BAD CALL!”

Oberyn’s holler reverberated in their ears like a clap of thunder, such was his rage. It was a roar of pure sun-fire, and for once, he frightened them all.

“Oberyn, you are a prince not a spitting viper, have some decorum.” Elia answered him in her own biting tone.

The siblings stared at one another before Oberyn relented and calmed a little.

Arthur on the other hand, his fury grew beneath the surface. A quiet burning that reminded Ashara of the night her father unleashed hell on Lady Dayne before they never saw him again. The thought left her feeling uneasy. 

“I know one should not say ‘I told you so’, but I told you so...”

Although his voice was lower, his tone was not any less accusatory.

“Oberyn –” Ashara attempted to plead for him.

“No, no, no. I told him Vorian could not be reasoned with and had no interest in peace. He didn’t listen. Again, and _again_.”

The argument was cold. Every word over pronounced, slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air.

“I intend to rectify my errors shortly.”

“And who would follow the knight with the strength of a beast but the will of a little girl?”

Arthur stepped into Oberyn sharply. They were nose to nose as stormy blue eyes burned into Oberyn’s black ones. Ashara was afraid of what might happen next. If Elia’s tightening grip on her brother’s wrist was any indication, she too feared that their animosity would finally end in swords and lines drawn that none could come back from. 

Each sister spoke their brother’s name in warning.

“Arthur...”

“Oberyn...”

In that frozen second between stand off and fighting, Ashara saw their eyes flicker from her to Elia, and it was clear some sense returned to them.

Arthur stepped back and gave a curt nod before addressing Oberyn again.

“With all due respect my Prince, I was appointed the leader of our forces, and I am going to do just that.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?”

Ashara looked to Aethan who looked as worried as she felt.

“Sister, I require my sword. Bring me _Dawn_.”

His words were carefully spoken. They had an air of finality to them that indicated nothing would change his mind.

Ashara did not hesitate to follow his command and direct a guard to retrieve the weapon.

A stillness descended between them. It was a thick silence that enveloped and chilled them, on a night devoid of even moonlight or stars. Something dangerous was in the air.

Arthur stormed out the tent without another word. If it were not for the limp in his leg, it would be difficult to guess this man had been beaten within an inch of his life just hours previous. His newfound assertiveness would continue as he rallied his soldiers in an awe-inspiring speech.

There were murmurs amid the wounded and battle-weary men as the great knight climbed his golden stallion.

The soldiers were dispirited by their defeat and loss, and likely the fact their commander had not been fighting beside them in their first attack. However, when Arthur’s grotesque and bloody face came into view there was much confusion on their faces.

If their lost confidence in him bothered him, it did not show.

“It is true our bloods are many in this land; First men, Andal, Rhoynish. Yet, we must never forget that under Our Lady of Grace, Nymeria, we became one. Now, Ser Vorian would have you believe there is passage to old lands but the home he seeks resides not in some distant motherland. It lives in _us_. We are Dorne and Dorne is us. Dorne is me, it is you, your brother, your mother, your daughter, your son...”

Men began to rise as Arthur’s steed passed.

“...There is nowhere else to be but here, nowhere else to live or die but here...”

He inspired them with his words and his eyes. Every one of them, including Ashara herself, felt transfixed in the moment, lost and speechless by his mere presence.

“...While none in the histories might remember this battle, _we will_. We will remember that this day House Nymeros Martell, Dayne and Ladybright battled as staunch defenders of Dorne...”

Arthur spoke with such fervour his voice reached all. Ashara watched his words alleviate the fears inside dejected soldiers. 

“...And understand you will fight alongside the Sword of the Morning, knowing that you too are worthy...”

He held up _Dawn_ for all to see. The glistening famed milky weapon men across all the kingdoms dreamed hopelessly to wield.

“... for this is just a sword, and any one of you could wield it. That is how much I believe in every one of you _true_ Dornish warriors forged with the finest power the gods bestow...”

Cheers came with every word. Arthur had transformed discouraged men into bloodthirsty beasts. They were ready to follow him to the gates of hell, and if Ashara had been a fighter she was positive she would have followed right along with them. 

“...Gather yourselves, gather all your strength and fight for your home. For we will attack again, and again, and again, until we overcome that castle and scorch it with our fury. There is only victory on the other side of those walls and victory is all the better when it is hard one by. Attack. Attack! Attack!”

Hollers erupted like an auditory volcano. It was all quiet one second and then deafening the next. With the cheers came swords in the air and mouths open wide. They were electrified, alert and soaring to new heights of emotion.

The Sword of the Morning ascended.

** Ascended **

The next time Ashara saw her brother, he was bought to her unconscious and looking twice as bad as before. Although he was fractured, she knew he was finally whole. He was truly Sword of the Morning.

“Vorian ran away when Arthur stormed the castle. I didn’t see much of it, but what I caught of Arthur... he was terrifying.” Oberyn explained, all former anger directed at Arthur completely dissipated from him.

Whatever Oberyn saw had entirely changed his opinion of Arthur. Nothing made Oberyn afraid but Ashara pondered if her fearsome brother finally won the wild prince’s respect.

When the healers came with water and salve, Ashara tasked herself to tend to her battered brother. She removed his sandy robes and bloody armour. When he was down to nothing but his undergarments, she assessed the damage. Her eyes skimmed over his body carefully, touching to determine where the wounds were. Many were superficial cuts and scrapes which would heal easily, but the bruising against his golden skin was deep. On his chest was a dark purple contusion, angry and enflamed and spreading. Her hands reached for his ribs, taking note of the bumps, possible breaks. It was the worst she had ever seen him, and she wondered if her quest to make him Steelstar had broken him beyond repair.

Ashara took the water and washed away the grime and blood stuck to his skin. She kneaded gently at his skin to allow the blood to circulate. Then took the salves and herbs to the damage, she would heal him back to health if she had to. She owed him that much.

Lastly, she placed Dawn between his hands. She hated how much it made him appear as if a corpse ready for the next life. She endured the image for he deserved to wake up with his sword in his hand. There would be no denying that he had earned it now.

Eventually, a few groans came, and then bloodshot blue orbs stared into hers.

He coughed and Ashara placed a chalice of water at his lips. It took Arthur a few moments to realise that Dawn rested in his hands, but when it registered, he looked at her with wide eyes.

“What does a knight do?” She asked, taking them back to the years of training he received from Ser Waters. 

“He fights. It is his duty.” The response was immediate.

“What are you fighting for?”

“For my family, for House Dayne, for Dorne.”

This time, Ashara added her own question.

“What if it required you to break another oath to fight for us, would you do it?”

“Without hesitation, whatever it took. There is no oath above Sword of the Mornings duty.”

Ashara nodded.

“You and father were right. Dawn is only a sword. It is the man who wields it that must be worthy. Though it is a great honour to bare and withhold the pillars of Sword of the Morning with it. I understand now that the man must be greater than the sword. Without you, without kin, there can be no dawn.” He confessed.

Ashara smiled at him despite the tears which gathered in her eyes. A bandaged hand rested over hers tenderly.

“Then you are ready, Ser Arthur Steelstar, Sword of the Morning.”

She blessed him with a kiss to his hand and blade. While she had never been one for prayer, this day she whispered a hushed orison to whoever might listen, Lord of Light, the Seven, and wished him good fortune.

When she gazed at him again, a frown graced his brows. He was deep in thought in the way that reminded her so much of their father. She did not have to ask to know his thoughts were of Vorian.

“I know Vorian _escaped_ , and I suspect it was your doing-”

He opened his mouth to explain but she interrupted.

“I do not need to know how, I trust in your decisions. Before yesterday I didn’t care if Vorian lived or died. But, when I saw how hard you fought for him, something changed in me. Family above all, is something you have shown me. You didn’t fail, and you were not dishonourable in the way you conducted yourself. You have made me proud to be a Dayne this day and the stars will shine brighter as our Dayne ancestors look down on you with pride...”

He held on to her every word. The emotion in his eyes was fathoms deep, yet they carried the warmth and life of a starlit surface. They had a thousand hues of blue and a touch of lilac radiating in softly swooping arcs. His eyes shined so impossibly blue that she had spent her childhood believing he had his own night sky inside of him.

“...and if it is absolution you need, then _I_ give it to you. You must forgive yourself for the past brother. For _all_ your faults and failings.”

His eyes drifted away from her as he digested the words.

“You are ready for the mantle and its responsibilities. There is none more worthy to protect House Dayne.” Ashara reaffirmed.

Arthur finally returned as much of a smile as he could muster with his swollen features.

She climbed into the cot and rested herself gently beside him, as they did as children.

“Go, be free.” She whispered. 

“What about you?”

It pained her that they were to part, but she knew it was the right thing. She had no doubt that their paths would again converge, they were of the same constellation and their stars would not shine so bright apart.

“Arthur, you have been my safety and shelter when the stormy winds rose to fever pitch. You are the one my heart relies on, runs to. As your sister, in this life I owe you more than I have given. I was broken and you picked me up, kissed me, put the pieces back together with tender love, as brothers do. I curled into you, felt your protection, as a sister does. Yet there will come a time when the roles will reverse, and you will need _me_. I must learn to be more like you. So, let me grow strong dear brother, strong enough to shelter you when your storm breaks.”

He held her tighter.

“You already are strong Asha. I couldn’t have done anything in my life without you.”

In his arms Ashara felt the thing that had once shattered between them, mend.

Thus, when Arthur was returned to full health, Ashara watched him ride away from Sunspear to finally seek his greatness.


	24. Love Awakens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara discovers love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara.

One blisteringly hot afternoon, Elia and Ashara lounged in the princess’ solar. Her friend sat across from her, atop her Dornish rug – that old filthy rug Ashara gifted her on arrival to Sunspear, all those years ago. It had seen more dances than the palace feast hall. It was where they twirled, Ashara with Elia, the music trapped by closed windows and doors. Once the colour of blood oranges, now it told an earthy tale of love and laughter, of more good times than anyone could ever be promised.

It was this perfectly normal day that Ashara came to a sobering realisation. Elia was oh _so_ beautiful.

Ashara was supposedly composing a new melody on her handpan. Instead, whilst Elia was concentrating on her book, Ashara concentrated on her. She watched the way her dainty fingertips tapped idly on the frayed edges of the rug, the waves of her hair, her eyelashes fluttering when she blinked in shock at whatever she was reading. Ashara was enamoured. 

She met her dark orbs; the most beautiful in all of Dorne, she was certain. They were so dark they seemed almost black until the sunlight caught them, setting them molten hues of the very richest of browns, bright with life and laughter.

Her skin – and Ashara had the good fortune of being able to feast her eyes on a great deal of it in the sticky heat. Usually she was covered in a shawl, lest she catch a chill and see her in bedridden for days, but today’s humidity called for minimal layers – her skin glowed a deep bronze that turned rosy at her cheeks and pink at her lips. And what lips they were; full and tempting as they twisted up into a smile.

“Fuck,” Ashara breathed, dizzy from desire. She could not remember when she had felt the like of it. Perhaps never at all. Though she took pleasure in men, women always did seem to have a way of making her heart flutter quicker.

Her thoughts drifted, to somewhere different, to a train of thought she knew she should not entertain. She should not have been imagining how soft her lips were, or how warm her tongue would feel against her own. 

More and more, every time they were together, she felt something stirring, until her heart ached to be rid of it, but yearned even harder to hold on to it simultaneously.

Ashara wondered if this was another passing fancy. For that was always her problem—she fell in lust too easily. With a snorted laugh, a crooked smile, the movement of hands when they spoke; a unique intonation in a voice, and she would be infatuated. Ashara spent her short young years entangled in a mad love affair with the very concept of _people_. Nonetheless, her feelings were as changing as the waves of the Summer Sea.

She snapped out of her reverie. Elia seemed startled, the rhythmic hum of her fingernails on the surface of the rug lost. They both stayed silent. 

The tension in the air was suffocating. It felt as if Ashara’s thoughts were so loud that Elia could hear them. 

“What dark cloud troubles your mind today?” Elia asked because she knew her too well. And simultaneously, not nearly well enough.

“None at all.” Ashara responded far too quickly. 

“Tell your brows that. You’re frowning my dearest.” Elia teased.

When Ashara felt her forehead, she was surprised to find the tell-tale signs of a deep frown. 

“Oh.”

Elia’s black eyes studied her, though not quite as intensely as Ashara previously observed her. 

“Lady Ashara, do you miss your brother?”

She did, of course she did, but not enough to call him back. He was finally doing something for himself, she could not begrudge him that. 

She shrugged.

“You know he is with family, uncle Lewyn will care for him like his own son.”

“I’m not worried about him.”

Ashara answered, although her eyes again drifted to Elia’s taunting lips.

Elia regarded her, eyes roaming from head to toe, and for a moment Ashara feared she might have been caught. Elia had always been able to read her as easily as the book in her hands, as if the words of Ashara’s thoughts were written across her forehead.

“Do you wish to have gone with the _Red Viper_ after all?” 

Not more than a few moons after they returned from the Scorched Rock, Oberyn bedded Lord Edgar Yronwood’s paramour, then challenged him to a duel. The young prince had won the duel. However, the whispers of Yronwood’s death, days later, spoke of Oberyn wielding a poisoned blade. Princess Furiosa had all but exiled the Red Viper, sending him on “duty” to Oldtown and then Lys.

Before Oberyn’s departure he had begged Ashara to leave with him, to seek out adventures across the world together. He attempted to persuade her with vows of giving her heart’s desire. She would be free to dance, and sing, and indulge. Everything she had ever dreamed of, yet she refused when she realised it would mean leaving home… leaving Elia. 

“No, my place is with you, princess.” She answered honestly.

Elia smiled.

“You are good to stay with me, Asha. I couldn’t bear to lose you.”

Now, Ashara smiled.

“I will _always_ stay with you, Elia. I have yet to meet a man I prefer to you. I fear that is my curse.”

The words caught in her throat as puzzling sadness washed through her.

“Don’t listen to your mother’s urgings, we are still prized maidens, and the time for husbands remains in the distance.” Elia deduced.

Since Prince Doran’s wedding to the beautiful Lady Mellario of Norvos, Lady Dayne had put increasing pressure on both herself and Aethan to look towards marriage, much to Ashara’s chagrin. The mere idea of being tied down to a husband, locked up in his castle for the rest of her days, made her want to fling herself from a very high tower. She still vividly remembered the fiasco that was her parents’ marriage and had no desire for anything similar.

“You must not have heard her endless nagging at the wedding.”

Elia laughed then. It would have been difficult for anyone within earshot to not hear the grumblings of Lady Dayne.

“ _You must look to the future, Ashara…will you grow old alone-_ ” Ashara said, impersonating Lady Dayne’s incessant fussing.

“No, no… ‘ _will you grow old with no family, Ashara… the boys already complain you only have eyes for Elia, Ashara...’”_ Elia teased, fingertips poking at Ashara with every sentence.

_“…If you are to be married soon, you need to at least pretend to find them half interesting, Ashara.”_

Elia mercilessly tickled at her sides, sending her into fits of giggles.

“Princess.” Ashara reprimanded when she was all but gasping for breath.

Elia smiled at her with feigned innocence and Ashara immediately sought revenge. 

It was only then she realised they may have gotten carried away. As her own laughter died down, she wound up pinning Elia down, wrists above her head, straddling her.

She gazed long and hard at the dark eyes beneath, and Elia looked at her in a kittenish way, head tilted and eyes sparkling. Ashara felt as though her entire body became magnetised. Her thoughts raced, confused and sporadic, like a lightning storm inside her mind. For the life of her, Ashara could not comprehend why she suddenly felt this way. She decided her mind was malfunctioning when she thought she saw Elia visibly gulp, blink, and lock her gaze onto Ashara’s eyes.

“I...” Ashara coerced herself to say, feigning normalcy in her voice. Although, for reasons beyond comprehension, _not_ letting Elia’s wrists free, nor shifting so she no longer straddled her.

And apparently, that was entirely acceptable with Elia, because she looked, then, like they were having the most ordinary conversation, in the most ordinary way.

“I – I, simply, uh.”

Her words were failing her miserably. Elia’s body was wriggling underneath her own, and her dress too thin, and seven hells, she was a disaster. Her eyes dropped down to Elia’s lips, and she cursed herself for being so obvious.

Ashara cleared her throat and finally found her voice.

“I dare you to dance for me.” She spoke the first thing that came to her mind.

Elia laughed musically at Ashara’s odd behaviour.

“Why would I do that?”

Her eyes were soft, yet hypnotizing like she was peering directly into the sun. In that moment, Ashara dropped her hands, moving to hold Elia’s face. 

“I shall bestow you a kiss if you do.”

Ashara was pushing the boundaries of their relationship, was intrigued to see if this was simply lust or something else altogether.

“And what makes you think I want to kiss you.”

“Don’t you?”

She knew she was not supposed to feel this way. Elia was her closest friend, a sister _almost_.

Ashara gingerly caressed over her darkened cheeks and nose... and lips. When Elia shut her eyes, she stroked the tips of her thumbs over her eyelids ever so gently, feeling her lashes flutter against her skin. It was new territory for them, but Elia seemed to enjoy it, arching up into her touch and smiling. Then, Ashara kissed her; her eyelids, her cheeks, her nose...

Her hands shook slightly, her mind repeating the same sentence over and over, ‘ _do not do this…’_

But the sound of her heart was beating so thunderously she could not concentrate.

Their lips touched, and the world fell away.

Elia’s mouth was firm against hers, but the kiss remained gentle, slow, and yet passionate, comforting in ways that words would never be.

They held it, before their lips began to move in perfect sync, slowly, cautiously. It was a few moments before it registered that Elia was kissing her _back._ She adjusted her hand from an impossibly soft cheek to the back of her head, fingers tangling in long, dark hair, lightly pulling Elia closer, adding greater pressure and deepening the kiss.

When it came to an end, Ashara exhaled through her nose, not wanting to let go. Her entire body had been taken over by the overwhelming feeling of relief, combined with eccentric panic and lust.

Onyx eyes opened and they stared at each other in a strange way. Ashara sat frozen as she deciphered exactly what the touching of their lips made her feel.

“What was that for?” Elia asked, observing her as if calculating a complex cyvasse play.

Unable to take the pressure of Elia’s scrutinizing gaze, she looked away when she answered. 

“I was curious, I suppose.”

Ashara half expected Elia to laugh, instead of the words which came.

“And have I sated your curiosity?” There was a playful lilt to her voice that washed Ashara’s anxieties away.

“I’m not certain, let me steal another and we shall find out.” Ashara half jested. 

Elia halted Ashara in her descent with a hand to her chest. When she met her gaze, there was no longer amusement in her eyes.

“I might allow you another, _if_ you vow not leave me another heartbroken maiden, running from the gardens in the wake of your fancy.” She said gravely.

Something akin to guilt swirled in the pit of Ashara’s stomach.

Ashara was in no hurry to give this newly discovered sensation up. It was a tingling that stirred low in her stomach, and she wanted it to consume her.

With another kiss, Ashara promised on soft lips.

“I would try my hardest for you.” 

They kissed, again, and again, and again. Until they were breathless, until they could not speak, until their giggles became hoarse and squeaky.

At night, they fell into bed together. And because it was late, and _only_ because of that, they helped each other with their undergarments rather than wake the servants. Though they had dressed and undressed in front of one another a million times, something was different between them. Disrobing transformed into something of a shy dance. 

Their hands were much less practiced than handmaidens, but they laughed and fumbled their way through it all the same. Ashara learned the way to twist her wrist so that the stays of Elia’s intricately woven vermilion silk dress loosened easily; and she also learned to ignore the way that her heart hammered at the softness of Elia’s skin against her fingertips. She attempted not to notice the way the straps had left marks against her back, angry and red, that she craved to smooth out with her palms, and if she was to be honest, with her mouth.

She forced herself from staring when Elia stepped out of her drawers, naked and giggling. Instead, she passed over a nightgown as if the sight of her was nothing important. In a feigned cough, Ashara disguised the way her breath caught at a glimpse of Elia’s bronze body in the moonlight. As she observed her final preparations for sleep, Ashara desperately attempted to distract herself from ungodly musings about the shape of the princess, the swell of her breasts under her nightdress, and the dark softness at the apex of her thighs that she was not supposed to be hungry for.

In the end, they laid side by side, silent, and not touching; other than the way their hands pressed together.

Eventually, in the stillness of the moments before dawn, Ashara unveiled the full scope of her earlier realisation.

 _‘So, this must be love_ ,’ she thought. 

Ashara never intended to grow attached this way, yet in hindsight, she understood this was inevitable; only she had been blind to it from the very first greeting. How could she not _love_ Elia? How could she not love those understanding onyx eyes, the pristine waves of her cocoa hair, the way her delicate hands fit in Ashara’s palms, her kisses, the scent of blood-oranges and honey emanating off her.

_‘Surely, this was love?’_

There would never be another to show her fierce protection, attentive care and unwavering support, in the way Elia did.

If this was love, oh seven hells, Ashara was royally _fucked_.

However, when dawn gave light to day, Ashara concluded her feelings were wrong and she could not allow for feelings of _love_. Not with Elia, for in the dark she had come to think of every reason she could not pursue such feelings.

‘ _I would ruin you.’_ Ashara thought admiring her sleeping princess. It was not pondered with malicious intent, only she knew, with time, she would certainly sully everything. Elia was too pure and sweet and good for Ashara.

In the rear of her mind, Lady Dayne’s cursed words from long ago played like a Dornish mockingbird tormenting her to heel.

_‘You will be like me, selfish, melancholic down to your innermost core… incapable of love.’_

Ashara knew what was likely to happen, and for the _love_ she had, she refused to allow her feelings to consume them both. It would only result in a broken heart and a boat with a single destination to Starfall.

Ashara believed a little pain now, would spare them greater strife in future. Thus, she decided to run from _love._

Ashara was positive her quick change in mind would hurt the princess, yet she continued to vow into the dark that Elia would never need to fear anything; that Ashara would fight whatever life had to throw at her with her, and dance until her feet bled to keep that smile on her face, because Ashara had little to offer the world but she could offer _that_. She could do that. In the foggy depths of a confused mind maybe that was enough.

When morning arrived, Ashara fell into a long perfected act, like nothing at all had occurred the day previous, ad if she noticed disappointment in dark eyes, she ignored it.

This would not be the first time she broke a heart, nor the last, yet it would be the first her own broke alongside the one she returned battered. Elia would recover from it and Ashara would stumble into the next doomed love affair to split the earth beneath her, until there was nothing whole left in her to break.

Ashara thought to a conversation they once had. They debated the definition of humanness. To Elia, humanness was the capacity to be hurt. Though Elia was brilliant, knew things about the histories of Dorne and Westeros that might put a king to shame, knew about love and caring for children; Ashara knew humanness was the ability to hurt, to harm, to ruin. Why else did temples and empires tumble down if not for the efforts of humankind? Why else were little girls violated before they even understood what the word meant? Ashara knew it was inherently human to cause ruin. That is why she was just like the rug they cleaned over and over. No matter how much cleansing she did, she could never truly wash away her chaotic contaminating darkness.


	25. First Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dornish party finally meet the famed crown prince Rhaegar Targaryen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

Ashara Dayne considered herself a skilled judge of character. She learnt a hard lesson the day she was attacked; few were to be trusted, and certainly fewer were to be believed as who they presented to be. Since that horrific experience, she made it a point to peer into someone’s soul and seek the truth.

Thus, whenever a new person entered her life, or those of whom she cared for, she vigilantly observed for signs of deception. She would ask pointed questions and see whether words matched eyes and body movements. She would press further and measure the cadences in a voice. If she caught wind of something rotten, she had the extraordinary ability to provoke the truth of character, even if she found no lies in their words. 

Yes, Ashara was incredibly adept at distinguishing those that were good, from those that were dangerous.

Thus, the day she met the famously desired Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, her interrogation of him was no different.

The Martell’s had travelled to King’s Landing to watch Arthur ascend again, as he was to be appointed Kingsguard at the holy day celebrations of the Warrior. As the Dornish party waited with the other ladies of Westeros for the knight’s procession, from the Red Keep to the Sept of Baelor, the only name mentioned besides Arthur’s, was the crown prince Rhaegar. 

“If I were to pick the comeliest of the men, it would be Ser Arthur Steelstar. My brother told me his sword was forged with star fire, and that at night, whenever he swings it, he can strike his enemies dead with lightening power. Not only is he the fiercest knight, I hear he is quite the gentleman, no Lady at all can claim to ever have stolen a kiss from him. There cannot be a finer man.” One Alynne Connington whispered dreamily.

“While Ser Arthur is handsome for a Dornishman, there cannot be one finer than Prince Rhaegar. His hair sparkles like silver made liquid, and his eyes are Valyria reborn. A true Targaryen prince.” Olene Oakheart answered obnoxiously loudly.

Ashara and the other Dornish ladies rolled their eyes at Olene’s backhanded compliment.

“There is no northern knight finer than a Dornishman.” Ashara spat back irritated.

Elia, who had been uncharacteristically taciturn since their arrival to the King’s capital, momentarily halted playing with little Allyria to place a calming hand on Ashara’s forearm.

The northern ladies continued their conversation as if Ashara had not spoken at all.

“I have heard the Prince’s fair features are nothing on his strength. Although he is only ten and six, they say he is all muscle and sinew. Also, it is common knowledge in the westerlands that his intended is my Lady Cersei Lannister.” Joy Westerling added conspiratorially. 

It was trouble enough that Ashara had endured many a nauseatingly long correspondence from her own brother speaking the Prince’s praises. Worse still, she found that even amongst the Martell’s party, the conversations also speculated the famed prince, despite the fact the King nor the Prince had greeted them upon arrival, as was customary. 

“Lady Ashara, I certainly agree that Dornishman are the finest knights, but the Prince Rhaegar is much more. They say there are no fingers more adept at the harp in all of Westeros, and his music, it brings tears to maiden’s eyes.” Larra Blackmont mused.

“And no doubt many a girl to his bed as well.” Ashara answered irritated.

It seemed every man, woman, and child who was able to wag their tongue, worshipped him. 

“I had a vision about the Prince last night.” Elia revealed, as she bounced Allyria on her lap. 

“Not you too,” Ashara huffed, falling back to bury her head in her veiling.

“I dreamed of a stranger, and although he had no face or none that I could well see, I saw Valyrian eyes. He walked on water towards me, but his footfalls made no sound. His arms were outstretched and in one hand he held a crown of winter roses and in the other a fist of crimson rubies. In my dream, he handed me the rubies.”

“Were you afraid?” Serra Qorgyle wondered.

“No, I felt quite the opposite. I was _excited_... a sense of expectation. Then, when I woke up, I was so dismayed that it had only been a dream.”

Ashara deduced Elia’s pensiveness was due to this dream and thoughts of the crown prince.

“What do you think your dream means?” Ashara wondered, observing Elia intently from her hidden position.

“It’s said rubies are the gems of power... so I suppose, he was offering me power.” She said after a moment’s thought. 

“…Or love. My mother told me rubies are gifts of love.” Larra interrupted.

Something akin to jealousy flared violently in Ashara’s chest as she witnessed a dewy-eyed expression grace Elia’s face.

“Princess, if he was handing you a crown and Rubies, perhaps the gods have it in store to see Dorne rise again.” Erena Manwoody mused excitedly.

“Imagine that, a Dornish Princess whose children would sit upon the Iron Throne!” Serra chimed.

Sniggers came from the other Westerosi ladies nearby.

“Our Princess Elia, is already one in her own right, she has no need for a pretty prince nor an ugly throne for her children to sit upon.” Ashara’s tone was biting enough that her young sister, that giggled on Elia’s lap stopped.

The Dornish ladies looked knowingly between themselves.

“Are you afraid the Prince might be prettier than you, Lady Ashara?” Larra jested.

“Pretty enough to steal away your dearest _friend._ ” Serra taunted.

On any other day Ashara might have indulged the teasing, but this day, she was at her wits end. Instead, as they laughed, she scoffed.

“I suppose you Dornish are dumb _and_ deaf. Lady Cersei Lannister is Prince Rhaegar’s intended. What would he want with a Dornishwoman?” Olene Oakheart interrupted.

Ashara snapped at Olene’s words and yanked at the front of the blonde’s dress. 

“Lannister’s have been saying that for years and yet the King _still_ has made no announcement. The Prince would be lucky to have a Dornish _Princess_ even look his way. Apologise.” Ashara spat through gritted teeth.

“Lady Ashara. Please sit down. I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself.”

Were it not for Elia pulling at her wrist, she would likely have hit the other maid.

“Lady Olene, would you care to remind me which Oakheart has ever sat as Queen consort?”

Her question was met with silence and Olene looked away in deep embarrassment as the Dornish party chortled.

“Ah, I suppose there has been none. Dorne has never bowed to dragons, dragon-fire is nothing compared to sun-fire, and if the young Prince’s fire burns as hot as mine, perhaps one day you shall call me Queen; but for today, Princess Elia is my title. Now, I suggest you stay quiet before I call for Dorne to wipe out another generation of Oakheart’s.”

The Dornish ladies were as loyal as the men, and they gathered around their Princess and squared off with the northerners. It was in this moment Ashara saw the difference between Dorne and the other kingdoms. Their robes, their ladies; their royalty were not respected.

Just as it seemed all tension was evaporating, Olene whispered her last insult.

“I do not take instruction from a filthy mongrel-blood _Rhydo._ ”

Before Ashara could stop herself, she struck Olene’s cheek so hard the short maid staggered back into the ladies behind.

“Ashara!” Elia reprimanded, with a tight hand around her wrist lest she strike again.

“She called you-”

The slur used was an old one, and many a battle between Dorne and the Reach had been caused by the mere uttering of the word.

“I have already told you I can defend myself!” Elia interrupted.

The two friends stared at one another, fire burning in both of their eyes.

“Ashara, go.” Elia commanded in a tone that was all Furiosa.

Without protest, she fled before she did something to further implicate herself.

Just as she managed to quell her anger somewhat, Ashara would have her first encounter with the famed crown Prince in Elia’s quarters. Ashara stood overlooking King’s Landing, feeling every bit a foreigner in a foreign land, when a quiet knock came from the open door.

“Lady Elia, I am sorry to disturb you, only I came to apologise on behalf of my father and mother, they meant to receive your party upon your entrance this morning. I hope you understand the King and Queen still grieve the loss of our young Prince Jaehaerys.” A smoothly deep voice spoke with the odd nasally accent of the crownlands.

Ashara was surprised to find it belonged to Prince Rhaegar.

Still vexed at all things King’s Landing she did not curtsy nor turn to face him fully.

From her position, out the corner of her eye, she studied the Prince at the door. To her dismay, he was as beautiful as the ladies professed, a tall lithely built man donned in the signature Targaryen black – a tunic, with a red three-headed dragon pinned at the shoulder. His glimmering silver hair was clipped back with the bottom half flowing down his neck.

Ashara was almost as taken with him as every other person she knew. Almost.

She faced him, although she remained veiled in the shadows of the sun.

When she peered into his Valerian-indigo eyes, his most striking feature, hidden behind thick eyebrows held in a pensive frown, she found an enchanting haunting there. It was more than the melancholy her brother mentioned, it was entirely devastating, and a terrible foreboding feeling travelled up her spine.

However, she was intrigued by his aura and pressed to unveil the prince.

“In Dorne, Martell’s are royalty, Prince Rhaegar.”

“Apologies, Princess, I suppose us Targaryen’s have shown you nothing but our worst sides this visit. I hope your view of us is not so terribly damaged, your mother was the Queen’s truest friend once.”.

Princess Furiosa often spoke fondly about the young Queen she had been lady-in-waiting to. However, it was clear, when she spoke of the King, between many of the carefully chosen words, there were sore feelings there.

“Oh Prince Rhaegar, do you truly think me foolish enough to believe dismissal and rudeness to be your _worst_ side, surely there is something darker?”

Despite the short chuckle he gave, his movements remained stiff.

“All of us have a dark side, although some choose to wear their darkness for all to see, and the others battle it silently inside.” He revealed.

She moved closer, though not close enough that her own violet eyes might give her away.

He stood with feigned confidence and forced propriety, and Ashara concluded he had carefully curated the man that he was. She deduced he was more introspective than most, he consciously cared about how he presented to others, not solely in looks but in behaviour, thus he stood still, a fair distance apart, arms placed defensively in front himself. 

“Which one of those are you, do you embrace your darkness or fight it?” She pressed.

“All of life is about the battle between light and dark. I chose to battle my demons alone, Princess.” He answered without giving further explanation.

He looked away, somewhere distantly behind her and the expression on his face was heavy and painfilled; and she could not help but wonder what demons followed him.

Before she could interrogate him further, Arthur appeared at his side, clad in the gold and white of the Kingsguard. He bowed to his prince and looked curiously between Ashara and Rhaegar.

“Ser Arthur has warned me about the heat of Martell sun-fire…”

Arthur looked confused momentarily.

“…Now, I can attest to its scorching temperature.”

“Rhaegar, you have no idea how hot her fire rages. I hope she has not burned you with her words.” Arthur added, attempting to hide his smile.

“Not at all, it is refreshing to not be treated as a perfect thing to be worshipped…”

He faced Ashara once again.

“…I am sure you understand that as a Princess of Dorne.”

“I am afraid you mistake _star_ -fire for sun-fire, Prince Rhaegar.” Elia revealed as she appeared in the doorway.

Rhaegar’s brows rose in surprise, looking between the Dornish knight, Princess and Lady.

“Princess Elia?”

Elia nodded and accepted the hand offered out to her. Ashara observed with avid curiosity as the prince bestowed a kiss on Elia’s hand. Watched for something in their interaction, although what that _something_ was, she was not quite certain.

“Although, you are not so wrong, my Prince. She too is Elia.” Elia spoke moving to stand at Ashara’s side.

“That she is.” Arthur agreed thoroughly amused at his sister’s antics.

Arthur’s smile was enough to wash away all the rage and hostility that had been swirling inside her, and his infectious laugh pulled out a laugh of her own.

“Arthur you wretched tease!” He chastised his friend in jest. 

“Lady Ashara, I suppose you learnt all your mischief from your brother.”

“Oh yes, don’t allow his charming smile to fool you, this true knight taught me everything I know.” Ashara spoke with a wink to her brother.

“Once upon a time perhaps, sister. The student became the teacher long ago, is that not so, _Princess_? _”_

They all laughed and Ashara became a little less suspicious of the Prince as she saw the easy interaction he shared with her brother.

“Lady Ashara, your brother has spoken much about you, I am pleased to finally meet his beloved sister.” 

Rhaegar smiled as he took her hand and pressed a kiss to it.

“My lady.”

With his proximity Ashara managed to look at the Prince entirely. He was more handsome up close; the image of a true Targaryen prince with eerie Valyrian eyes as dark as the midnight sky. Their depth resembled that of an endless maelstrom at sea, like that of the famed devil whirlpool in the Summer Sea that had claimed many a ship and crew, a wave of unsettling mystery emanating from them. He was a beautiful man, that could not be denied, but when Ashara met his gaze, all she could feel were the fingers of fate inch its claws down her back.

Moments later, Rhaegar and Arthur were called away to take position for the Knight’s procession.

Once Ashara was alone with Elia the light smile she wore fell quickly; and something of a quiet rage burned in dark black eyes. Elia was furious, and for the first time ever, it was directed at her.

Eventually, after a long day of curt politeness and dismissive words, Ashara confronted Elia.

“You’re angry with me.”

“Why would I be angry with you Ashara?”

She stood on the other side of the small chamber, and the distance between them felt as far as the Summer Sea. Elia’s anger was barely concealed and Ashara knew to tread carefully; her rage was far more dangerous than Oberyn’s explosive one.

“Perhaps I should not have embarrassed our party as I did, and for that I apologise. However, I was defending you. I will never allow anyone to disrespect you in my presence.”

Elia studied her carefully and her face was purposefully schooled into a collected expression.

“We are not in Dorne, we are not ourselves, we represent the Princess and the entire kingdom. So, you can’t behave as if we are in the Water Gardens and strike every person that might say something bad about us.” Elia explained.

“I didn’t strike every person, I struck Olene because she insulted you, Princess – and to me you _are_ Dorne.”

Elia sighed and perched haggardly on the window seat, the travel and days events having taken a toll on her health.

“Yes, I am a princess, but to the rest of the kingdoms, they recognise me as no more than a sickly Dornishwoman. I must change that view by winning over their hearts. Hitting their beloved ladies and interrogating the future king doesn’t win hearts.”

Ashara tutted and waved her hand in annoyance. She was shaken by the idea Elia saw herself as anything less than the royalty she was.

“If they do not want us Princess, let us return home and live as the royalty you are.” Ashara insisted.

Elia shook her head and again regarded her with that schooled expression.

“Is that why I found you flirting with the Prince?”

Ashara was dumbfounded by the accusation.

“Flirting with a prince you claimed to detest _so_ much.” She added.

Everything fell into place at Elia’s words. She was not truly upset that Ashara struck Olene, she was _jealous_.

“Flirting? I’m sure you’ve seen me do it enough times to know _that_ was not flirting.”

“Very well then, not flirting… what about sabotage?” She accused, voice hard.

Ashara’s jaw dropped at the words. Never in her wildest imagination could she imagine doing such a thing. She had not seen this coming and it was knife to the chest.

“Sabotage, is that what you truly believe?” Ashara’s voice was small and she felt the tell-tale signs of tears develop.

At the first mist of tears in her eyes, Elia’s mask fell, and the distrust written across her face turned into shame. 

A suffocating silence stretched between them, and eventually Elia’s voice came. 

“What else am I meant to think? I know of the pressure your mother has put on you to find a match, and at every mention of the prince you have only seethed with jealousy– ”

Elia was so far from the truth that Ashara interrupted her promptly.

“Yes, I let Rhaegar think I was you, but I only wished to find out what manner of man this prince is. Not for myself, but for _you._ If you call that sabotage, then perhaps I should return to Dorne after all.” Ashara snapped.

The anger left as rapidly as it came, and devastating hurt laid in its wake.

Elia face fell a little more, although she refused to meet Ashara’s eye. 

“You don’t believe me?” Ashara wondered searching her expression for answers.

Elia reached out immediately, and it was Ashara’s turn to pull away. 

“Yes, I do, I do.” Elia finally responded.

The idea that Ashara would ever do anything to intentionally ruin things for Elia was absurd. Ashara loved Elia more than anyone or anything else. Had she the courage, she might have told her just how much that meant.

“Tell your face that.” Ashara commented.

When Elia stood and reached out again to pull her close, Ashara allowed the touch.

“I’m sorry, Asha. I believe you, I do.”

Elia’s hands found her own and caressed the knuckles gently. As much as Ashara wished to punish her for ever doubting her motives, Elia’s expression, a deep frown across her brows, told Ashara she was plagued with dark thoughts.

“I have only ever wanted you to be happy Elia. I would never do anything to hurt you.” Ashara professed.

She moved her chin so that their gazes met, and when they did, even Elia’s battled tears. Strangely, Ashara’s heart raced. Elia was behaving so unlike herself and Ashara worried for what she saw in dark orbs. Uncertainty, worry and frustration stared back at her.

“What is it my sweet Elia?”

Elia smiled sadly at her before moving to swipe at the escaped tears on her cheeks.

“I- It’s not you who was jealous...”

Ashara remained quiet, curious as to where Elia was heading with her confession.

“…I was- I am jealous,” she admitted.

Ashara could not imagine a world where Elia envied her anything, she had so little to offer and Elia was everything. A princess of Dorne envious of a cursed purple lady; Ashara was half-expecting her to start laughing as a joke.

“Everywhere you go men line up for a moment of your attention. You are beautiful and charming, a true prize of Dorne. I never worried for your ever-revolving flights of fancy because at the end of the day, you have always returned to me. Yet, when I saw you with the Prince, I was not surprised he took such a liking to you, of course he would… but I feared for the first time, the moment you find someone you love greater than me. I know it’s selfish, but I simply don’t want to ever lose you.”

A smile she could not prevent pulled at her cheeks and Ashara released a breath she did not realise she had been holding onto. Elia was afraid to lose _her_.

“My place is by your side Princess. I will be there until the very end.” She promised.

A love neither of them could control had developed and Ashara long ago found home at Elia’s side.

Elia nodded but did not return her smile. They were quiet for so long she assumed their conversation was abandoned until Elia spoke again. 

“Do you not dream of more?” Elia whispered, mindlessly drawing patterns onto the skin of Ashara’s hand. 

“More?”

“Love, a husband, children?” She elaborated.

Ashara would marry no man. Once she entertained the idea of children, but now, it terrified her – how could she bring children into a world that she could not protect them from?

Love, that was more complicated, for Ashara _loved_ Elia above all else. Yet, she understood Elia could never be hers. Ashara believed herself soiled and broken and cursed – she was incapable of the kind of love Elia deserved.

“I love you, Elia. You and Dorne are everything I need to be happy.” She retorted with such sincerity the meaning of her words could not be mistaken.

“And I you, dearest…”

“But,” Ashara prompted.

“Eventually I will marry and go wherever my husband resides. Do you truly believe you will be happy at my side then, as you are now?”

Ashara contemplated her words. She always knew Elia would marry and have children, but in it all, she always saw herself by her side.

Staring down at the ring she always wore, the gift from her father, his words from long ago drifted to the forefront of Ashara’s mind.

‘ _Sometimes, fleeting moments are all there is. Yet, if you ever find someone that lights up your world like the sun, never let go and do right by them.’_

Elia was the Sun and Ashara could not live without her.

“Will you always love me as you do now?” Ashara asked.

“Always.”

She found Elia’s warm cheek and affectionately caressed the skin there. 

“Then I know I will always be happy at your side, my sweet Elia.”

Unexpectedly, Elia’s hand drifted to her hip and Ashara inhaled sharply at the sudden change in tension. She was pulled as close as possible against her warm body and the hand she placed at Elia’s shoulder was intended to push her away, for they were toeing a dangerous line.

Elia leaned in, resting her forehead against hers and Ashara watched breathlessly as her eyes studied her with silent intensity. Their breaths quickened simultaneously, and even as Elia leaned ever closer, Ashara could not find it within herself to push her away. 

Slowly, inexorably, she pressed their lips together and she tasted like a warm Dornish night, like home. It was soft and gentle and chaste – a surging wave of warmth that filled Ashara up, rushed to every corner of her body: the cracks in between her toes, the crooks of her elbows, the tips of her ears. Every inch of her was saturated with love.

Ashara found herself gripping onto the moment for dear life – or maybe that was Elia’s hand – begging for them to remain like this forever. She wondered if Elia knew the depth of her adoration, felt her affection, noticed the sweet tinge surrounding her aura.

Eventually, Ashara pulled back. It was evident this was as much a promise of forever as it was a goodbye to any hope of them ever being together in a way even Elia perhaps craved. Ashara was too terrified to ever ask for all of her; heart, soul and body. 

“What we are to each other, is so much more than any friend, or romance, or husband. You are the Sun and I am the Moon. Wherever you go, I will follow.” 

The words brought a wide smile to Elia, and Ashara was sure more than ever that she wished to spend the rest of her life making her smile. She was desperately _in_ love with Elia, and the thought that once terrified her, liberated her.

“And I will go nowhere without you, my dearest Ashara.” Elia vowed.

Tranquillity remained between them as they laid back onto the bed by the window and fell into the silence.

“So, what manner of man is the prince then?” Elia wondered, hours later.

“I suppose I can see why so many sing his praises. He works extremely hard to be the people’s prince. Yet, when I look into his eyes, I see a mystery engulfed in sorrow that shakes my very core.” Ashara answered honestly.

Elia digested her words.

“Then I suppose it is a good thing Cersei Lannister is his intended and not I.”

Both remembering the drama from earlier in the day, they laughed mischievously, all ill feelings forgotten.


	26. Lannisport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prophetic dreams of fate lead to a cold war between Dorne and the Westerlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

When Elia was a child her mother told her that the women in her family were known for being touched by the Gods. It started with Nymeria, the warrior-princess, who the other kingdoms later called witch, for her dizzy spells and prophetic dreams which drove her to commandeer ten thousand Rhoynar ships to the shores of Westeros and unite the small, warring factions of Dorne under the banner of House Martell.

Sometimes, the visions skipped generations, but their familial gift persevered through the generations bestowing a somewhat cursed inheritance upon the daughters of Nymeria’s descendants. Elia would never be so well regarded as a true conduit of the Gods like Nymeria, but she had the gift of prophetic dreams which allowed her to interpret the will of the Gods and the fate of herself and those around her.

It was not a present that was always there as it had a mind of its own; choosing when, where and, most of all, _who_ was the subject of her dreams. Elia praised it in the past when her visions of purple stars led her to Starfall, led her to Ashara Dayne. Even though her head ached for many moons prior, her heart found a joy she could not explain when she met a young Ashara. Other times, she cursed the nature of her gift for the unbearable silence that came when her father died suddenly with no explainable cause. 

Thus, on the eve before the Dornish Party would leave for the Lannisport Tourney, to celebrate the birth of Prince Viserys, when Elia again dreamt of Prince Rhaegar she was certain to take it as a sign.

Rhaegar visited her fantasies as he had the year past; haunting Valyrian eyes drawing her in as he walked on water with his arms outstretched, wordlessly calling her to make a choice. Although, this time, while one hand was outstretched with a fist of dripping crimson rubies; in the other, the Prince held onto the hand of a young boy. The boy, who was no older than five, had hair so dark it resembled her own, Rhaegar’s pale skin and the darkest indigo eyes they appeared near black; and in small chubby fingers lay a crown of winter roses. Although the pair did not speak, nor did they smile, Elia was filled up with a love she could not explain.

In the end, she accepted the offerings, rubies and roses, and took the extended hands. She could not see where they led her, only that she too walked on water, and when she awoke, her skin tingled with the feeling of fate.

The fact that her dreams led her twice to the man that would one day be known as the King of the Seven Kingdoms could be nothing less than a gift, no matter the outcome or the pain it would cause her in the end.

Staring down at her bed companion, Ashara’s warning circled about her mind; the foretelling of the Prince’s infectious sorrow that would drown whoever dared to get close. Yet, with the ghost sensation of that boy’s hand in her own, and the image of Valyrian eyes boring into her own, she could not force away the visions which seemed fateful. Her heart ached for the child in her dreams she was certain was her son. Children were Elia’s greatest want. She yearned for nothing more than the experience of motherhood, had wanted it since her own mother gave her domain over the Water Gardens protecting children; noble and smallfolk alike, ensuring childhoods filled with love and joy.

Therefore, Elia left a sleeping Ashara and headed to the Princess’ solar and explained her dreams to her mother. Afterward, she watched a fire return anew in the Princess Furiosa she had not seen since long before her father’s death.

In the years past, Elia saw and felt the disappointment in her mother’s aging dark eyes, in that she had not yet found a worthy match for her only daughter. She was her mother’s most beloved child. Furiosa often spoke of the painful years in which she tried for more children after Doran. Two sons were lost before Elia came along, and she too nearly died. A tiny thing, born blue and waited a long few minutes before she gave the wailing cries of life. For the struggle Furiosa experienced bringing Elia to life, she had sworn her a future worthy of the pain. Elia was Dorne’s prized sun. 

“You are fated to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” Furiosa concluded.

Uncertainty swirled about the pit of her stomach. She remembered her reception in Kings Landing the year previous, there was little love for Dorne or their royalty. 

“How can you be so certain of my dreams, mother?”

Furiosa shifted a little on her enormous bed bringing Elia closer in their embrace.

“You are the blood of Nymeria. You are touched by the Gods.” She stated as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

“How can that be true when the Gods saw it fit to bless me a sickly princess?”

Elia’s malady was something she fought every single day. She exhausted herself trying to keep up with those around her, and despite all the potions, poisons and infusions, no treatment ever worked so well as to keep her permanently healthy. Inevitably, she always fell to crippling exhaustion that would see her off her feet for weeks at a time. How could she possibly be destined to be _the_ Queen?

Furiosa turned sharply to face her. Their eyes met, and Elia saw certainty reflected in the dark orbs that mirrored her own.

“When you were born, so small, so frail, I thought it was my duty to love you more than any of my children. I thought your infirmity a weakness… I was wrong.”

Elia aspired to be a woman as formidable as her mother. She grew up watching the mere mention of her name earn respect or instil fear into the hearts of many a man. Furiosa was named appropriately, for she was truly the mistress of rage, and even if Dorne was not loved in Westeros, none would ever cross her for fear of the Princess.

“Your infirmity has given you a strength even your brothers do not possess. Doran is your father’s son, patient and thoughtful, and Oberyn is my rage, but Elia – you are the best of us all. The Gods have come to you and shown you the future. It is your duty to see Dorne rise.”

Although the confession was the greatest thing her mother ever told her, Elia could not help but feel the weight of Dorne placed upon her shoulders.

Furiosa was headed towards the afterlife. For the past few years, she had been preparing her children for her end, but none knew how she wished her legacy to carry on. Now, she passed the fate of Dorne into Elia’s delicate hands and they trembled from it.

“What would you have me do?” Elia wondered.

“Lannisport shall be where you show your sun-fire. I shall deal with the King’s Hand, I have waited many years to enact my retribution…”

The Martells still sported deeply injured pride over discussions of marriage with Tywin Lannister from seemingly an age ago. When the Princess first ventured out of Sunspear to find matches worthy of her children, their destination had been Casterly Rock, owing to plans made by the ladies-in-waiting of Queen Rhaella. Despite Lady Joanna Lannister’s death after giving birth to Tyrion the Imp, the Princess expected Tywin to agree to the betrothals. They discussed marriages between Tywin's children, Jaime and Cersei, to Elia and Oberyn. To the ruling family of Dorne’s dismay, Tywin scoffed at their offer, proudly claiming that Cersei was meant for the Targaryen prince, and the only match he deemed worthy was sickly Elia to the Imp babe.

“… You shall dance to Rhaegar’s songs, charm the King and his advisors with your intellect, care for the Queen and little Viserys as if you were already her good-daughter…”

Furiosa conceived a plan so easily that Elia wondered how long she waited for this moment.

“… It is in your hands to win over the Prince and the hearts of the Westerosi, for it will be your child – the one that sits on the throne – that will give power to Dorne, such that none will ever again look down upon us.”

Elia had the tools to conduct every task her mother instructed her toward. The many long conversations regarding the histories of the realm, her domain over the Water Gardens, her mission to the Scorched Rock; and the constant encouragement of dancing and merriment; it seemed her education had been intended for a Queen

“A queen is not the king’s property. You shall be equal in your marriage even if not in the realm. If Rhaegar is anything like his mother, he will recognise that. It will be your duty to stand at his side and guide him to usher in a new age and make the realm a better place. While I do not expect it to be easy, I know you have the strength to endure. You are my daughter and the strength of Nymeria is in you, Dorne is in you, and you will remain _unbowed, unbent, unbroken_.” Furiosa described earnestly, as if she knew what was lying in wait for her.

Growing up, Furiosa often sat Elia and the other maidens down and spoken of marriage; what it was to be a dutiful wife; the sacrifices, the pain, the joy. This time, Furiosa taught Elia what it was to be a Queen.

“Will you accept the path the Gods have laid out for you?”

Elia gave pause and contemplated the meaning and implications of their conversation. Despite the unease which crept down her spine, Elia relented. For it was the will of the Gods and as devout as she was, she would accept for the love of the Seven.

“Yes mother, I shall follow the Gods to the end.” Elia vowed.

The two remained there a while as the low bustling of Sunspear waking begun. Eventually her mother spoke again, as if she heard the incessant thought that ran around Elia’s mind. 

“What of Ashara?”

Furiosa regarded her with a sad smile, like she understood exactly what she was feeling.

“Ashara…” Elia began.

Since their falling out at the Warriors day celebrations, Elia and Ashara came to a wordless agreement to push all discussions of boys and marriage away. Ashara seemingly matured overnight, and whilst the flirting continued, the string of whirlwind romances stopped.

“…remains devoted as always. She does not see reason to not be at my side forever. Seven and ten now, and she still does not dream of the things normal maids do. She would happily dance with me and poke fun until the end of our days.”

“She makes you happy because she is not afraid to treat you as Elia.” She stated.

The smile that had been pulling at her cheeks faded when she wondered how this particular pairing might affect their relationship. A marriage would certainly change things between the friends but one to the crown prince might fracture them in ways they could not predict.

“I had not expected change to come so soon for us…this will be hard for her.” Elia revealed.

 _ ~~‘This will be hard for me.~~ ’ _A lingering thought of stolen kisses, hammering hearts and dreams of forever were pushed to the back of Elia’s mind where she kept all impossible ideas locked away, even from herself.

Her mother stoked her hair gently with her soft wrinkled hands.

“The Water Gardens would have you believe you could be girls forever.”

Furiosa loved Ashara like her own, and of those that ever questioned their closeness, her mother had never been one of them.

“Long ago, when your father pointed out the connection between you two, I worried for you. Yet, as the years have gone by, I have come to see that Ashara is good for you. I have witnessed the way she is with you, she will always be loyal to you, and for that I can’t help but feel it was always meant to be. I would not see you broken apart, though I might suggest you keep it from her until all is done, such that you might have the last of your girlhood together.”

Despite the guilt which settled in her bones, Elia knew her mother was right. Therefore, for all the love she had for her dearest Ashara – that, and some unknown fear in disappointing the violet-eyed beauty – she remained quiet about her prophetic visions and the Princess’ schemes.

When the tourney of Lannisport commenced, competitions for sport and plays for power ensued. As the newly knighted silver Prince won the events of the days, proving himself a true Targaryen heir; Elia won the competitions of the night, proving herself a formidable player in the game of thrones.

During the feasts, ladies squawked and simpered, lords boasted and brawled; threats of war broke out at least three times before each was forgotten in hearty flagons of gifted Dornish wine, and unfailingly, all eyes drifted at some point during the festivities from the taciturn King Aerys who sat upon his vaulted throne, to the irate Tywin Lannister to his right, and finally, to the plotting Dornish ruling Princess on his left. It was only a _little_ satisfying for Furiosa that she would slight Tywin as collateral in their plans.

When Elia found herself repeatedly seated beside the silver Prince, much to the Lannister’s dismay, she understood it to be her mother’s work. She followed Furiosa’s lead and helped conspire for a match she deemed fateful. She danced to all of the Prince’s rhythms, cried at his solemn tunes; she impressed the King with her sweet wit, charmed his lords with her knowledge; and although the Queen and Prince Viserys were absent, she attentively and _publicly_ cared for her niece, Princess Arianne and young Allyria Dayne.

Whilst the Great Houses fell for Elia’s act, Ashara did not. Except, if she knew exactly what was up, she did not confront nor question it, she simply mused quietly from the side-lines and accepted Arthur’s victorious crown of white lilies as Queen of Love and Beauty, and Elia’s performance.

At the beginning of the tourney, attendees whispered that the tourney had been meant as no celebration for the King’s son at all, but the announcement of a betrothal between Rhaegar and Cersei, securing Tywin Lannister the throne for generations. However, by the end of the competitions, the discontent between the King and his Hand were revealed for all to see; for there would be no betrothal for the lioness cub and dragon, and nor would there be a celebratory feast. Dorne won the competitions of the day, and the games of the night.


	27. A Royal Match

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara confronts Elia about Prince Rhaegar's pending trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

“Elia Martell!”

Ashara stormed about the Water Gardens searching for her friend expeditiously, overcome with tempestuous emotions at the discovery of some very perturbing news.

“Elia!”

Ashara was not surprised to locate her at the stables, where she found her more frequently as of late. The stables, the smaller of the palace infrastructures, were hidden furthest away from the waters and leisure quarters; meaning one either went there with purpose, or to hide away. At first, Ashara figured the princess’ newfound fascination with sand steeds was just that, a new hobby, or she simply needed some resting space having recently recovered from a heavy spell of ill health. However, the information Ashara stumbled upon this day, suggested that she had been hiding from _her_.

Elia was slumped in the shade, paying rapt attention to the steeds that freely wandered about the stables’ sandy courtyard. When Ashara came to stand in front of her, she looked surprised to see her there, as if she had not heard her yells for the past several minutes.

“Elia, I have heard something. A rumour told to me by El – ...a person of interest,” she began, stumbling over how to divulge who had told her this tidbit of information.

Coal-black orbs drilled into her. Despite the prickling rage she had set off with, looking at Elia then, the storm inside her lessened.

“Meaning you heard it from one of your _friends_ at the whorehouse,” she filled in smoothly, gazing at her knowingly. Elia was well-accustomed to her dearest friend’s ways, much to Ashara’s annoyance.

Ashara had the good grace to look a little embarrassed, and an amused smile pulled at Elia’s lips as she watched her squirm. Whilst Ashara swore off her once many fleeting romances and sexual escapades, whenever Oberyn was back home she was wont to accompany him to the whorehouse, if only to catch-up with him. Thus, when the whore, Ela, spilled royal secrets between kisses, both Ashara and Oberyn became enraged. Subsequently, Ashara sought out Elia; and Oberyn, his mother.

“Yes, well, the source was reliable enough for me to be concerned. What is this talk of Rhaegar Targaryen coming to Dorne?”

The laughter she felt in her died, and Elia stilled. Instead, she stared blankly at the steeds ahead who trotted about the sand. Ashara studied her curiously, wondering just what was going on inside her head. Eventually, she felt her friend’s delicate fingers brush her hand and guide her to sit beside her.

“Elia?” she quipped when she still did not answer.

Ashara scrutinised her. The princess was undeniably a woman grown now. Although she was not always strong in body, it was the strength of her inner inferno that Ashara always admired, one she knew was not always visible. She was the boiling blood of a Martell; unbowed, unbent and unbroken, and would forever remain so. But if what Ashara heard was true, Elia needed a fire stronger than the sun’s to last amongst the dragons.

“Yes, the Prince is coming to Dorne.”

She no longer gazed at her but back to the steeds neighing playfully, lost in thought and oblivious to everything but their movements.

“May I ask why?”

“Because the Princess has invited him.”

Elia was playing dumb, which only served to frustrate Ashara more.

“And why would she do that?”

She knew why. The Princess and Elia had performed a great seduction at the Lannisport Tourney. Ashara observed Furiosa whisper sweet words to King Aerys and drive a wedge between him and Tywin Lannister. Silently, she witnessed Elia charm the Silver Prince night after night wondering just what the Martells intended. Ashara had suspected then, but said nothing, she hoped that the dragons and lions would remain in bed together as the rumours said.

“You know why.”

Ashara was as certain of why Prince Rhaegar Targaryen was coming to Dorne as she was certain that Elia would soon be leaving it. Except, stubborn as she was, she would hear the truth from Elia’s lips. So, in turn, she played dumb.

“I do not.”

Elia sighed but obliged Ashara’s petulance and finally gave her an answer.

“In Lannisport, we presented Dorne to the King and Prince as a viable union. It was inevitable that I would have to marry, you knew this, and the match would have to be one beneficial to Dorne.” She stated impassively, like the statement was rehearsed. 

“Is this truly what _you_ want – to be married to Rhaegar?”

Elia’s eyebrows rose queerly, as if she had not expected the question at all, and Ashara searched her dark pupil’s for doubt. However, after a few moments, she found her evading her gaze.

“It seems fate would have the Targaryens and Martells united once more.”

It felt like she was being lied to, yet the expression on Elia’s face suggested she believed her own words.

Ashara understood Princess Furiosa’s aspiration to make her House and Dorne the most powerful of them all, that ambition she shared with her cousin, Ashara’s mother. After Furiosa’s great standoff with the slavers armada that came to Dornish shores, trading with Dorne had dwindled in retaliation and the kingdom suffered. A Dornish Queen and future part-Dornish rulers would secure the kingdom’s prosperity for generations. However, there was more than just financial safety at stake. Furiosa was a proud and _patient_ woman; and she had not forgotten the slight Tywin Lannister paid her family when he rejected the offer of Elia’s hand to Jaime Lannister. Ensuring the prized sun of Dorne’s marriage to the Targaryen prince, assured all the Princess’ ambitions.

“Not because the Princess wants to slight Tywin Lannister?”

“No, it is fate.”

Something about her statement, and the sharp way her eyes met Ashara’s, felt strangely like a knife to the heart.

Ashara tutted disapprovingly.

“But – ”

She thought to argue with the point of Lord Steffon Baratheon’s recent suspicious death. Whispers in Dorne spoke of his voyage across the Summer Sea to Essos to find a worthy bride of Valyrian descent for the crown prince. Yet, the conviction Elia spoke with suggested there was little point, her mind was made up, no matter how much Ashara might rave and plead and protest.

“It is fate.” she repeated.

Ashara had rarely heard her friend speak in such an acerbic tone, much less in such bitter terms. Her eyes followed her as Elia stood up slowly, face wincing in pain, and gaze once again looking at the lazing steeds as she spoke.

“Daeron the Good married Myriah Martell centuries ago, before the Blackfyre Rebellion, and his sister Daenerys married Maron Martell, the ruling prince of Dorne. The king and his queen and the princes all have Martell blood in their veins. And Rhaegar has no sister to wed, so they have decided to look beyond King's Landing to the closest thing they have to kin here in Westeros.”

Elia turned to her then, misty eyes with unfallen tears. However, her voice only grew more resilient, more steely.

“The dragon has chosen the sun and it was always meant to be that way. The Gods haunted me in my sleep and revealed the future to me.”

Elia’s devotion to her faith was a quality Ashara openly admired, for she was disillusioned with gods and fate. Nonetheless, in this moment, Ashara wished to curse her friend for her seemingly blind loyalty to her Gods.

“And the Gods are never wrong?” She countered sourly.

“Dearest Ashara, even if I wished for different, my fate is fixed.”

Ashara thought to her own supposed fate, prophesised in her childhood by the Red Priestess of Starfall; the end of a curse characterised by betrayal, calamity, blood and death.

“Then I suppose you believe I am destined for a long painful journey to a tragic end?”

No matter how hard Ashara tried, she could not forget the only vision of possible prophecy she had seen. Images of bright eyes and bloody scales of some creature and a blinding darkness that filled her with an all-encompassing coldness. 

“The words and visions conjured up by witches who worship fire are not to be trusted.” Elia answered quickly.

“What’s to say your Gods are right and mine wrong?”

Elia sighed loudly.

“You do not believe in any god, Asha. So why argue so adamantly on this point?”

Ashara stared at her, the answer clear on her face. Elia turned on her heels, to distract herself with stroking the silver horse which came to graze nearby.

“Do you not understand? This marriage would mean we would leave home for _King's Landing_. You know what they say, about the King – they call him the _Mad_ King, Elia!” Ashara snapped, standing to follow.

She grew up hearing whispered horrors from her father about King Aerys and the strange Targaryen dragonlords. Even Furiosa, who spoke little of the King, hinted at his cruelty toward Queen Rhaella. Moreover, everyone in the realm knew of the cruel fate of Prince Jaehaerys’ nursemaid after the infant died, then Aerys’ mistress and her family. They were tortured and executed, accused of a murder they never committed. As of late, the whispers of the Mad King only amplified after the disaster at Duskendale. Even in Dorne, where the men and women were baptised in the fire of vengeance and defiance, the people recoiled when they heard of Aerys’ wrath toward Denys Darklyn, his entire family and House Hollard; gruesome revenge deaths inflicted upon them. If rumours were to be believed, the King was more unhinged than ever.

Elia whipped around to look at Ashara, irritation blazing in her eyes.

“I _do_ understand, Ashara. But, this marriage is important. I am not just any woman. I am the prized Princess of Dorne, a valuable alliance for the Targaryens, and this union is a valuable tool for not only the Martells, but for our people.”

Granted, this explanation was far more reasonable than dreams of fate; but Ashara could not ignore the suffocating feeling which came every time she envisioned Elia’s marriage to Rhaegar. A part of it was jealousy. She loved Elia, and even though she had never taken her in the way she craved, selfishly she did not want her with another. Whilst Rhaegar was seemingly nothing like his father, she had not forgotten, in his eyes, a dark storm that promised to wreck them all. 

“It is my duty.”

 _Duty._ It seemed that word was always taking away the people she loved.

Ashara did not respond, merely worked her jaw in continued fury as Elia walked away towards the palace indoors.

Ashara pondered a while, watching the steed Elia had previously been stroking, before she followed, determined that their conversation was not over, the princess had avoided this topic for long enough.

When she found her in their bedchambers, pensively studying a silver saddle discarded by the desk, Ashara realised that the silver steed and saddle must have been gifts from Rhaegar.

The anger she thought had subsided reignited ten-fold, for Rhaegar was not even in Dorne yet, and he was already claiming Elia for his own; and when she thought about Elia’s distance over the past several weeks – he had already been taking her sweet Elia from her.

Ashara moved, swiftly and powerfully, until she towered over her dear friend. She curled her arms around her, feeling her small body remain as still and dormant as marble, and she wondered how her always vibrant Elia could be so immobile, so corpse-like.

And for a moment, Ashara was deathly afraid. Dorne was their _home_. This was where they loved, where they were safe, not in that foreign lonely castle where the only heat was dragon-fire, where the Mad King reigned and raved, where Queen Rhaella was trapped under her brother-husband’s claws, where Prince Rhaegar sat still and solemn and played that cursed harp of his.

If Elia left Dorne, Ashara was afraid she would die. She would fight it, she knew, but that bright sun that flamed in her body might dim, and she could wither away her spirit as well as her body.

It was with these thoughts in mind that she desperately whispered into her hair, “No. No Targaryen will take you away.”

Elia drew away from her then. Black orbs met violet ones and Elia contorted her lips into a grim, sombre smile, determined to hide her pain. She had mastered her fake smile, right down to the wrinkles around her eyes. Yet, Ashara saw in her eyes – the windows to her soul – a dim crack of feeble sunlight peeking from beyond the dark clouds that gathered on her brow, and held onto her tighter as the façade crumbled into a real grimace.

“It is fate.” Elia whispered, pain etched in her voice, and somehow less convincing than before.

Ashara had words but none that would change anything. Instead, she simply let her frustration consume her body, her rage at Rhaegar- _fucking_ -Targaryen for wanting to marry Elia, at the Princess for saying yes, at Tywin Lannister for provoking her years ago, at the Mad King for being mad, at Myriah Martell for marrying a Targaryen in the first place, at Aegon Targaryen for bringing his damned dragons to Westeros.

Red. Everything went red. Her vision blurred as a flame ignited in the pit of her stomach. The heat rose up to her chest and crawled through her veins and took over the rest of her body. Her fingers coiled into fists, crushing, breaking and destroying everything in her sight. Ashara raised hell, like if she burned hot enough, she could change the situation. The term fury, barely even touched the tip of the volcano that she so clearly was in that moment.

Just as any other time Ashara was lost in emotional firestorms, it was Elia who followed her into the flames to guide her way out. When Ashara was finished, an exhausted mess on the bedchamber floor, Elia came to sit by her side and welcomed her into the safety of her arms, extinguishing any last embers of rage.

They sat in deafening silence until twilight turned to night. Eventually, the young princess took a deep breath, and uncurled each of the fingers in Ashara’s clenched fist, such that she could entwine their fingers, and if she too noticed how perfectly their hands fit together, she did not mention it.

She bought another hand to Ashara’s cheek so that she might face her, and it took another pinch of her chin to force her eyes to meet Elia’s again, because she was ashamed of how terribly she behaved. She thought that if it were a choice between Rhaegar and herself, Elia would likely pick the prince – because how could she love someone as broken and angry as Ashara?

Ashara was not surprised to find Elia attempt to kiss her pain away. She planted delicate pecks on her cheeks and then her lips. For the first time ever, Ashara repelled from her soft lips. It was Elia’s default to try and ease Ashara’s pain, it was one of the main reasons Ashara loved her. Now, it served as a reminder of everything she could never have, and everything she never deserved. Soiled and loveless Ashara.

At the rejection, Elia came to rest her forehead against Ashara’s. For a while longer, they were still and shared breaths between them.

“Why are you so angry?” Elia probed. 

Something in the way her voice broke as she said it, made the question sound awfully like a way out for both of them – like a test. When their eyes met, Elia seemed to be pleading with her for an answer Ashara was unsure she was able to yet articulate.

_~~Because I love you. Because I wish I was worthy of the prized sun of Dorne. Because I want to marry you.~~ _

“Because I worry the Prince is not worthy of you, and that you will not be safe nor happy away from Dorne.”

If Elia’s question had been some test, Ashara was positive she failed, for the dejected slump in the princess’ shoulders and the fallen expression that kissed her face.

“I – ~~want you.~~ ”

Again, she faltered.

Whatever window of opportunity might have been open, closed as quickly as it unlatched, and Elia once again resolved to her decision.

“I understand your anger...”

“I just worry for you.” Ashara explained.

Elia smiled solemnly at the mingled pain and sadness which resided in Ashara’s violet eyes and in her expression; in the firmness of her pout and deep set of her frown.

“I have long heard from uncle Lewyn, the Prince is kind, a man who favours music to swords, that he bears more resemblance to Rhaella than to Aerys. I have seen evidence of this with my own eyes, in Lannisport he treated the little terror Lady Cersei kindly, he behaved respectfully towards me _and_ you, despite all your best efforts to make him feel unwanted. Arthur has said as much too…” She reassured.

The truth of the Prince’s good nature was evident in spades. This did not make Ashara want to dismember him any less, however.

“...If nothing else, Uncle Lewyn and Arthur will be there to protect me… and you, if you still wish to remain at my side.”

Ashara did not miss a beat to respond, for the phrase was as ingrained as breathing.

“My place is by your side, _always_ , Princess.”

Elia gave her an encouraging grin, although it dropped as her eyes set back into seriousness once more.

“And the Prince, if he turns out mad, I will not lay idly beneath him if he tries to rape or beat me. I am of Dorne, after all. And the sun can burn more than any dragon’s flame.”

Ashara knew what it was to be a powerless victim violated in the worst way, and she would fight to the death before she allowed that to happen.

Whether it was fate or not, Elia was to marry Rhaegar and Ashara would be at her side, so she asked one thing of Elia, so that it might not be terribly unbearable to watch her love another.

“Swear to me one thing.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me he will never get in between us, that if there ever comes a choice between him and I, you will choose me.”

Elia regarded her thoughtfully before she responded.

“Only if you swear to never put me in a position to choose between my husband and my –”

She gave a long pause.

Ashara concluded her amendment meant Elia wanted to _love_ Rhaegar, and she could not help but feel heartbroken.

“…My _everything_.”

Yet, Elia still confirmed she would always love Ashara more, and that was enough.

“I promise.”

“Then, I swear it dearest Asha, I will choose you until my last breath, and likely beyond then.”

The oaths were sealed with a final kiss; long, slow and wet with tears. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter but had to really explore Elia and Ashara's relationship. Let me know what you think?  
> Take care x


	28. Equals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Romance flourishes amid wedding plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

Elia tossed and turned night after night wondering about Prince Rhaegar, her _husband_ to be, riding to Dornish shores. She pondered what kind of man Rhaegar was. Apart from their brief interactions years ago, she only had his letters to go by; and they were so formal she could hardly glean a scrap of information about the real man who wrote them in florid statements and platitudes.

Would he be studious, like Doran, or would he be like her impulsive brother Oberyn, who preferred indulgence, merriment and spears to books? Would he be brooding or melancholic, or even angry and bombastic? Would he criticize her embroidery, her deportment, her manner of dress? Would he think her haggard-looking, after the bouts of sickness that had afflicted her recently? Would he find her _too_ Dornish – though her blood ran with traces of Old Valyria, the Rhoynar ran deeper – or too much like the summer?

Moreover, she wondered if Rhaegar would be as solemn and gentle as she remembered from the tourney in Lannisport? Would he love her, cherish her, value her opinions? Would he listen as she read books, visit the Sept with her each day, take the air with her in the palace garden, lounge with her on lazy days, dance with her and make her laugh long into the night? Would he write songs about her and play them for her on his harp? Mostly, she wondered if he would love her through the hardest times, when her body might go against her mind and require long rest.

A queer thought often flew to her mind, for all the things she wished of Rhaegar, her dearest Ashara already fulfilled so much of those needs. Whilst Ashara would never be her husband, she had set a precedence in the care Elia wanted. And she wondered about the one thing Ashara could not do – Elia blushed at the thought of her trying – would he come to her bed every night, until the two of them could beget a brood of princes?

Ahead of Rhaegar’s arrival, Princess Furiosa sat Elia down again to tutor her for the future.

Elia gazed in her direction, the grey strands of her hair drawing her eyes, and as she continued to stare, a light pain in her chest panged. Her mother was old, the minutes aging her body faster than Elia’s own; and it frightened her. She knew every one of their conversations was closer to the last, and so she treasured every lesson.

“In the Crownlands, although it is the King who sits the throne, crazed and mistrusting, beware that it is the lion that rules the kingdoms. The King’s Hand is a man of great mettle and guile and will never forget the theft of the silver prince from his claws,” she began, her wrinkled face contorted into an expression of grave severity.

“I will watch out for the lions, mother.” Elia confirmed.

Furiosa leaned forward then, black eyes peering into Elia.

“No, you must do more than watch out, my sweet, you must ensure your husband sits that throne and that your children do after him…”

It was with her mother’s every word that an anxiety began to grow in the pit of her stomach. Elia feared if she truly possessed the strength to survive the creatures’ den, King’s Landing; a seemingly vicious warzone of hidden battles.

“… Don’t allow them to use you as a pawn in games of powerplay. Your betrothal to Rhaegar has not simply been contracted because of fate and blood. The King asked for your hand for his son because above all, he seeks to take back control from Tywin’s greedy hands. He would have Dorne as an ally. He knows that Tywin is seen as responsible for the stability created in the Realm, and Aerys knows the safety and continuance of his family relies upon the people continuing to support him as king, ever-shaky though his grip to the throne may be – ”

With the dragons no longer in existence the Targaryen’s were no longer gods above men and their grip to the throne was loosening. Elia now understood her duty was far greater than she expected, it was not only to ensure a prosperous rule, but to save the Targaryen rule. The Gods had not only placed Dorne on her frail shoulders, but the entire weight of a 300-year-old dynasty. 

“And any children between Rhaegar and I, a princess of Dorne, blood of Nymeria and Old Valyria, will serve to ensure the endurance of House Targaryen.” Elia finished.

Her mother nodded sadly, as Elia comprehended the enormity of her duty.

“Doran did not wish me to tell you all of this,” Furiosa admitted, the space between her grey eyebrows creasing slightly with a frown.

“He thinks you too gentle to be burden to such valuable information. He would rather you be sent off to King’s Landing unaware of your value to Rhaegar Targaryen, an innocent girl who will blindly follow the orders of the men around you. But I”—and here Furiosa smiled wickedly at her daughter — “I know Doran underestimates your strength. I think that you need to know that, no matter what anyone tells you, Rhaegar needs you just as much as you need him. Do not let yourself be duped, my child. And if something needs to be said, do not hesitate to speak for yourself.”

Furiosa spoke with such gripping fervour that the anxiety stirring inside Elia stilled. She always cherished her mother’s words, for in her thoughts wisdom flowed and in that old heart of hers was the source of so much Elia held dear.

When Rhaegar _finally_ arrived in Dorne, he came with a large retinue: three members of the Kingsguard – Elia’s uncle Ser Lewyn Martell, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent – his squire Jon Connington, the High Septon; the new Lord of the Driftmark, Lucerys Velaryon and his uncle Ser Lycian Velaryon; a few soldiers and bannermen; and the new master of whisperers, Lord Varys.

Although there was little love between the Dornish and their northern neighbours, Rhaegar was an exception, especially since his betrothal their beloved prized sun of Dorne. Thus, when he rode in on his silver stallion, near-identical to the one he had gifted Elia, the Dornish people flooded the streets, unable to resist a chance to glimpse the prince of whom they had heard so many fantastical tales.

The prince’s party had come to Dorne to familiarise themselves with their future Queen and discuss all things marriage.

Rhaegar surprised Elia when he requested that all talks of marriage be held off until the engaged pair had time to acquaint themselves. Love mattered very little in marriage, many a wife would say that it grew with time, yet Rhaegar allowed them time for romance to blossom.

And indeed, a romance did blossom.

Quickly, they impressed each other with their knowledge and intellect, made one another laugh; and found similarities in their beliefs in faith, prophecies and duty. Rhaegar read to her, wrote songs about her; and whenever her health permitted, he rode their matching steeds or walked about the Water Gardens with her. In moments alone as they pored over maps of Westeros and Essos, planning ludicrous adventures, an unexpected fondness grew inside Elia. She might daresay _love._ When feeling particularly bold, smiling bashfully, Rhaegar would run his slender fingers through her long hair, and she would tease at their romanticism. In those moments, Elia was elated because she had found more than just a future husband in Rhaegar – also, she had found a _friend_.

During the lazy Dornish evenings, Rhaegar strummed his harp and Elia marvelled at his prowess on the instrument; he played doleful melodies, night after night, which spoke of pain and loneliness that swept through the hall, through the palace, and spilled into the streets of Sunspear until everyone stilled to listen to their prince play.

Of all that she found interesting about her sweet Prince, his dominating skill at cyvasse intrigued her. Elia was famously known at besting any who played against her, yet she found that Rhaegar was able to learn and master the game well enough to beat her. She did not miss the irony in his favourite winning play; the dragon killing the King. It unpeeled another layer to the complicated man, both sweet and sad, a dangerous knight and melancholic musician, transparent yet calculating.

When it came to discussions of marriage and ruling, she found much of the same duality in his manoeuvring of the subject. One afternoon, he sat her down to finally discuss expectations for the future.

“It gladdens me to know we share a dream of how we would rule the realm as a land of chivalry, basking in the holy light of the Seven.”

Elia nodded encouragingly, as he spoke simultaneously apprehensive and forthright.

“As my queen, you will have many responsibilities. You will be expected to write diplomatic letters, to entertain foreign dignitaries, to act as my regent in emergencies and provide me with heirs; sons to rule and command when we are dust in the wind. Under my Hand, you will be my second-in-command in all things.” 

Princess Furiosa’s words would not leave Elia’s head, and she was determined to make her sweet Prince see she would not be a pawn for anyone, not even him.

“You know, I am in the unique position of having a great understanding of the role of a consort.” She began.

Elia’s late father, Lord Oto Uller, was the Princess consort for over twenty years before his death. Although it had not always been easy – had been extremely challenging for the first decade – eventually they had gotten it right, and Elia grew up witness to it.

“Your father.” Rhaegar confirmed.

“He was the primary support and partner to my mother. It is no lie that the Princess is a most fearsome and competent ruler, that she stood against an armada of slavers and threw them back into the sea, she has maintained peace between the Reach and Dorne during her reign. In all that she has achieved, she could not have done it without my father.” Elia explained.

“I would wish the same for us, Princess.” 

Elia found herself smiling, although she persevered with her point.

“When the Princess was young and inexperienced, she replaced the wife’s crown for the ruling crown, and it hurt them badly. My father crumbled under it, and became arrogant, impertinent, greedy and impatient. She became cold, distant and rageful. In the end, his eyes wondered to another and it nearly fractured our family beyond repair. Of all I learnt from my mother and father, it is that whilst one may rule, and the other support, in the sanctity of marriage they were equal...”

She quietened and allowed him to ponder on it. Elia understood women in Dorne had greater freedoms to the rest Westeros and for a man who was raised watching his mother dominated by his father, he likely did not truly understand what equality looked like.

“…In Dorne, women are not commodities to be owned. None belongs to another and we are, all of us, free. My father was equal to my mother, not because he was a man, but because she made him so. I ask that I would I be equal to you in marriage… even when you are King.”

Rhaegar listened intently as he tended to do, digesting and dissecting every one of Elia’s words. It made her feel important and respected, and when she had dreamt of her husband as a child, this is what she had prayed for.

“I would be your King _and_ husband, princess.” He countered, although not dismissing the subject.

“The King is your duty, and you would be king to us all, but you would only be _my_ husband.”

Her hand reached out affectionately for his, and when the beginnings of a smile pulled at his cheeks she continued.

“Then, I would have us be equals in marriage and have you aide me in my rule as your father did your mother. The union between you and I seeks to bring Dorne wholly into the kingdoms, and its full allegiance to House Targaryen. It is no secret that the relations between the kingdoms have suffered greatly under my father and grandfather’s rule. My rule will be different…”

The words fell so easily from his lips she could scarcely believe them. Rhaegar had been entirely more than she expected. Before, Elia had worried for the dragon in the Prince, and instead, Rhaegar had shown her a gentle fire. He was focused on love, family and protection. He was the kind of man people wanted to be led by, to be at his side. Just as with dragons, the dragon was steadfast and confident, a predator yet paternal and safe. Elia could honestly say she had never met a _man_ who could hold a candle to her Prince Rhaegar.

“…I was promised to deliver humanity from darkness, bringing peace and prosperity. When they sing of my rule, they will sing of the Queen at my side.”

If Elia had doubted her fate before, falling in love with Rhaegar assured her in her fixed fate; love, power and prosperity. 

“In light of this, I would like to make a public declaration of my trust in you, Elia…” He began after a long thoughtful moment.

“…I wish for you to join the council conducting the wedding ceremony.”

The gesture was as grand a gesture as he could give her. It was a kindness to her, she was sure, but it was also aided to involve Dorne deeper into Westerosi politics. Dorne was isolationist to an extent, and this was Rhaegar’s first play into having the Dornish allegiant to him. Elia knew enough of him to understand he was nearly as adept at politics as he was at the harp.

“In which capacity?”

“In a collaborative capacity.”

Elia pondered on it. Every young girl had dreamt of their wedding, and when she had heard she would marry the Prince, all hopes and ideas were put away for the marriage ceremony of Targaryen rulers had been the same since Aegon wedded his sister-wives.

“None of your lords would like that, taking suggestions from a woman – a Dornish one no less.”

“They would like it because their Prince commanded them to.” He said plainly, as if it were merely enough. Though the Prince was respected by his men, he was not the King and his words were not yet commandments.

“They would also find a way to push away any of my ideas… unless I had total autonomy.”

Elia probed for just how true his gesture was. She had been warned of empty Targaryen promises from her mother and she would not succumb to honeyed words and melodies, no matter how sweet.

“Then, I would give that to you.” He promised with a kiss to her hand.

However, as predicted, tensions arose when they presented the news to the Prince’s council. 

“We all know the scale of the challenge that faces us. The eyes of the realm will be on us and we must put our best foot forward...” Rhaegar explained. 

“’ _We_ ’ already?” One of the council members muttered.

“…In such circumstances, the temptation to follow the precedents set by the grand and successful weddings of the past is great. But, looking to the past for our inspiration would be a mistake in my view…”

Confused frowns developed on every lord’s face in the hall. 

“…This match today is not that of past unions. Assumptions made at the time of my parents wedding nineteen years ago cannot be made anymore. That is why Princess Elia believes we should adapt this ceremony. Make it less orthodox. More forward-thinking. And I am inclined to agree with her. Thus, I have given her the leading seat of this council –”

Predictably, dissent erupted before the words had even left Rhaegar’s lips.

“Your Grace!” The men protested.

“Your Grace, excuse the interruption but House Velaryon has been aligned with yours since Lord Aenar Targaryen landed on Dragonstone. It has _always_ been our job to lead this council, my father conducted the ceremony for your father and mother, and his father for your grandfather and so on. Then by this, my nephew Lord Lucerys would conduct yours.” Ser Lycian objected standing out his chair despite Lucerys attempting to pull him back. 

“Ser Lycian, I understand that, but as I said, this union is not like that of the past.”

As the lords muttered and called out disapprovingly, control falling quickly out of Rhaegar’s grasp, Elia spoke. 

“My prince, if I may…” Elia interrupted.

The lords quietened in surprise at her soft voice speaking up defiantly.

“Go on.” Rhaegar encouraged as she stood beside him.

Elia could not help the flutter in her chest when she realised her future likely looked much like this; her stood at Rhaegar’s side as they looked at one another supportively. Except, when she looked to the other side of her, expecting another figure, that of Ashara Dayne, the absence was felt.

“My lords, I understand your position, to be faced with something so different from what you know. But, whilst we must show respect and sensitivity to the past world, we also must make it precedence for an image of a new age, an idea of us as pillars of the future Rhaegar and I shall bring when he is King and I am Queen.”

As she spoke, they listened, although the loathing in their eyes did not shift.

“Then why bring us here at all, if you never intended on hearing us?” The High Septon wondered petulantly, looking only to Rhaegar.

“It was my request to my future husband, my lords. His Grace kindly obliged, and whilst I may have rule over the ceremony, I understand to make this day work, we shall need all of you, your input and expertise. I am asking, from me to you, if you would allow me this position and let us create a magical day for the entire realm to celebrate and hold on to.” Elia pleaded.

Rhaegar stared at each of them with an expression in his enchanting eyes which left little room for further discussion. Rhaegar was still young but even Elia saw what inspired awe and attention in him. He had every potential to be a great king, and Elia would help him become it.

In the end, it was Lord Varys, the strange foreign master of whisperers, who had been quiet over much of the discussions, that first agreed. Following, the other lords consented, although they had little choice but to say yes. 

“We have a Dornish princess, and I am not my father, and therefore my rule shall be different to his. So, let us have a wedding that is befitting of the wind of change that we represent, modern and forward-looking to give hope to an evolved future.” Rhaegar concluded.

Elia had proven to herself that perhaps she was just strong enough to handle the duty ahead, the duty of Dorne and the dynasty. The Gods had directed her to Rhaegar, and for the first time, she was thankful for the gift he was. And if there was knot which twisted in her stomach, consisting of something akin to guilt and heartbreak, she ignored it. She had to love Rhaegar, for she believed, she would not survive the future if she did not. 


	29. Gods And Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur watches Rhaegar struggle with his duty and marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur

When the betrothal of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell had been announced, Arthur knew he was likely going to be stuck between whatever issues arose. Too many of the people that were closest to him were going to be hugely affected by the future marriage. Thus, when the Prince’s party set off, he spent the entire journey preparing for whatever was to come.

Arthur was a brother, companion and Kingsguard and each of these roles required loyalty to the people he loved. Ashara required him to nurse her through heartbreak, Elia needed him to serve Dorne’s interests and Rhaegar needed him to support and serve his interests.

However, as he came upon a hushed conversation, between the members of the ceremony council, he realised that perhaps it was not the people involved he should have worried about, but rather those around them.

“We can all see what’s going on here. A young couple playing marital games with the most cherished parts of our history and pageantry.” The High Septon whispered.

“The King would not agree with a single one of these radical proposals, including Dornish traditions being just the tip of the iceberg.” Lord Varys agreed.

“He’s simply trying to keep peace in his own bed chamber in promoting his future wife by keeping her occupied and happy. He cannot see the Dornish wench seeks to control him for that mother of her’s bidding.” Ser Lycian added.

However, as Arthur was not adept to eavesdropping Lord Varys noticed the young knight, effectively ending the conversation. Arthur was respected by the lords of the King’s Landing court, excluding his father’s uncle, Ser Lycian, who had never forgiven him for the slight at the Witness years ago. Yet, they all understood his loyalty was to Dorne and Rhaegar.

“Ser Arthur.” Lord Varys and the High Septon greeted him.

He looked at them each suspiciously but made no comment on what he had heard.

“Is His Grace with you? We called to meet him.” Varys wondered.

At the mention of his name, Rhaegar appeared with Jon Connington in tow. 

“Please tell me this has nothing to do with Princess Elia.” Rhaegar asked tiredly, it was the second time they had called him to discuss Elia’s command of the council.

Arthur knew much of Elia’s management skills, had grown up watching her learn to rule the Water Gardens from her mother and Doran. She was fair and reasonable, and it was easy to guess the lords simply did not like having to listen to a woman.

“No one is questioning the young Princess’ motives or the sincerity of her beliefs…” The High Septon began.

“I see. You think she has taken it too far.” Rhaegar concluded.

At Arthur’s suggestion, Rhaegar had been courteous and attentive to Elia since their arrival. The prince heard tales of Sunspear and Dorne, but he never expected to visit with the intention of marriage. The moment he heard, after some thought, he was excited by the prospect, at bringing Arthur’s family to become his own.

However, Arthur also could tell his friend was making a sincere effort to make things run as smoothly as possible, because with every day he felt the ever-mounting pressure of one day becoming King. 

“The changes she is proposing to an ancient, sacred, never previously changed ceremony and liturgy...”

The lords exchanged a look, searching for the correct words to say.

“…well, it went from top to toe.” Lord Varys finished. 

“And if it were just a marriage of two very different Houses from two very different kingdoms, it would be applauded – ”

“But…” Rhaegar interrupted.

“But this is not _just_ a marriage. It is the Crown, it is marriage to the future King.” Ser Lycian explained.

The way the conspiring men finished one another’s sentences told Arthur they rehearsed their strange intervention. However, Rhaegar seemingly bought the act and entertained their grievances.

“And one has to ask oneself... What exactly is this _new_ age your union seeks to show, and what will be your Dornish princess’ role, and what will be yours?” The High Septon probed.

Rhaegar was quiet a while. Arthur knew exactly what future the crown prince envisioned. Rhaegar had one-time divulged his burden, a fate decided generations before his birth, the prince that was promised to save the world from darkness. Although, Arthur was sceptical of fate and destiny, having been subject to something of fate himself – becoming the Sword of the Morning – Arthur understood his friend’s belief. In knowing the full tale of the silver prince’s horrific birth at Summerhall, the prophecies of his ancestors and the air of promise about him; something in Arthur was compelled to believe and follow the Prince in whatever was to come. 

“What say you?” Rhaegar asked.

“Loyalty to the ideal you have inherited is your duty above all else, because the calling comes from the highest source, from the Gods themselves.” The High Septon explained.

“Do you truly believe that?” Rhaegar wondered.

“A King’s rule is the Gods sacred mission to grace and dignify the earth. To give people an ideal to strive towards, an example of nobility and duty to raise them in their wretched lives. The Iron Throne is a calling from the Seven. That is why you are crowned by a High Septon and not a public servant, why you are anointed, not appointed. Which means that you are answerable to God in your duty, not any other, for you are above all others… including your Queen.”

Rhaegar sighed deeply as he considered the words.

Lord Varys manoeuvred over to the prince and handed him a scroll, presumably the changes Elia wished to make. Rhaegar read down the list but his face showed little concern until the final sentence. Whatever was said caused a deep frown to grace his features.

“I’m not sure that my betrothed would agree with that. She would argue that in any equitable society, that even a King must be his wife’s equal in a marriage. That a King rules his people and not his wife.”

The little progress the council seemed to take as victory was swiftly taken away with Rhaegar’s words. It seemed he was intent on sticking to his decisions and trusting his future wife.

“Yes, but she represents a royal family of parvenus. Mors Martell was a son of a lesser ruling family in Dorne and even Nymeria fled your Valyrian ancestor’s conquest of the Rhoyne. She is of _mixed_ blood, yours is pure, my prince, ruling was what you were born to do, not because of your family name alone, but because the Gods deemed it so…”

Arthur bit his tongue at the flippant way the Lords dismissed Dorne’s beloved ruling family, one whose blood ran through his own veins.

When his hand found its way to rest on the hilt of his sword, all the eyes in the gardens flashed to him. His reputation as the deadliest knight of the kingdoms was something he used rarely as a means of intimidation, but he found it imperative to do so then. 

“Your Grace, the decision is yours to make. Will this union show that the dragons are slave to the sun or that dragons will continue to rule our realm as the Gods willed when they sent King Aegon to conquer and save Westeros?” Ser Lycian added.

The question was met with silence as Rhaegar pondered their arguments.

“I will consider your words my lords.”

They were dismissed thereafter.

Rhaegar called Arthur to walk with him and Jon, as he often did to reflect ideas aloud to his most trusted.

Interestingly, Arthur found Jon and himself were nearly always on opposing sides, the fiery-haired squire thirsty for a glory Arthur had already found, and Arthur mellowed by experience. Arthur knew enough of Rhaegar to know he meant it to be so.

“What did you see that troubles you so Rhaegar?” Jon wondered when he had been silent a while, silver brows twisted into a deep contemplation.

“Princess Elia does not wish to bow to me.” He stated.

In all the kingdoms except from Dorne, in marriage it was customary that the wife would bow to her husband in promises to obey. Arthur had expected Elia to refuse. Although the princess was a sweet and gentle woman, she was strong and every bit the fire of Furiosa as her wild brother Oberyn.

Arthur could understand both sides, and though Rhaegar had yet to ask his opinion, he felt compelled to explain, if only to allow the prince to comprehend why. 

“In Dorne, women are as strong as the men, my prince – ”

“That is all very well and good. But, they will not only be the King and Queen of Dorne, Arthur. Why should we adapt to Dorne?” Jon interrupted.

“Could there not be lesson in adopting something for the good of the realm, if you are to usher in change, what harm would it do?”

Jon laughed but stopped abruptly when he saw that Rhaegar seriously considered Arthur’s words.

“Dornish customs are not something to aspire to. Women, bastards and adultery are not treated as the sin they are, here. What would you have next, a woman on the Iron Throne?” 

It was always so strange to Arthur that women were viewed as less than men outside of Dorne. He was raised by a mother who managed her house as good as any lord, ruled by a queen better than many kings.

“I am of Dorne, and our conception is owed to a woman on a throne. We have had many a great woman rule – including our grandmother of Dorne, Princess Meria who never surrendered to Aegon the Dragon.” Arthur countered.

Jon’s face turned the colour of his hair.

“Princess Elia is no Nymeria, nor is she Meria.”

They stopped walking then, Arthur and Rhaegar both turning to face Jon vexed by his insinuation.

“Perhaps not in body Jon, but I can see Elia still burns with the strength of the sun inside her.” Rhaegar defended.

Jon quietened as they began to walk again.

It seemed the conversation was over until Rhaegar once again studied the scroll with Elia’s proposed changes on it and broke the quiet.

“Oils and oaths. Orbs and sceptres. Symbol upon symbol. An unfathomable web of arcane mystery and liturgy. Blurring so many lines no maester could ever untangle any of it. Yet, people hold on so dearly to things they barely understand for the sake of tradition…” Rhaegar commented.

He passed over the notes to Arthur and though there were few changes, the corrections to Elia’s suggestions were many and elaborate.

“…It is madness.”

Arthur was of the mind to agree, he had little care for traditions for the sake of traditions – afterall, he had broken his own sacred family traditions when he saved Vorian from death during his Witness – yet, he understood why.

“On the contrary. It is quite sane.”

Rhaegar looked at him curiously. 

“Who wants transparency when you can have magic? Who wants prose when you can have poetry? Pull away the veil and what are you left with? Ordinary people. But, encase you up like this, anoint you with oil, cover you in gold and then what do you have?”

Arthur had bonded with the silver prince because he was not entitled, arrogant or vain, and thus he spoke candidly.

“Gods. Beings above everyone else.” He concluded.

“And if the prince is truly _ordinary_ beneath it all, what is to stop anyone else to think themselves worthy to be King?” Jon countered.

Rhaegar studied Arthur long and hard with his indigo eyes which seemed to carry some celestial knowledge. Whilst still angered, Jon too was curious for Arthur’s answers.

“Nothing. Certainly not any oils, sceptre or symbols. It is the acts of the man that make him worthy.” Arthur explained, words echoing a lesson taught to him so long ago by his sister.

Rhaegar nodded, although if he understood Arthur’s meaning he did not elaborate. 


	30. To Bow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The honeymoon phase of love falls away and Elia is left to deal with the prince beneath the charm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

“The council believe you to have overstepped the mark.”

Rhaegar came to Elia the morning before his expected departure to return to King’s Landing. The Prince had been engaged in the small tourney arranged for him by Doran, and Elia busy with Ashara planning for their wedding.

However, when they did see one another, the sweet prince that arrived weeks prior was distant in a way Elia had no idea how to deal with. She desperately attempted to extract his worries from him, to no avail. Elia had experience in managing melancholy, she learnt to manage her dearest Ashara’s depressive periods over the years. Yet, Rhaegar’s seemed to be embedded in his bones and deeply nurtured to shut out everyone who dared get close. Even Arthur, his closest friend, knew to stay away when he retired to solitude with his thoughts and harp. 

After Arthur divulged the complaints of the council to her, Elia expected him to eventually seek her out. 

“We expected that, but I believed us to be of the same mind, Rhaegar.” She countered.

Elia gazed at him. His pretty features were contorted into a concerned frown, and despite his immaculate robes, something about him appeared exhausted. She doubted it was from the competitions he had partaken in, instead it appeared more a mental tiredness borne from lack of sleep and overthinking.

Despite herself, Elia reached out attempting to bridge whatever distance he placed between them.

“Princess, the changes you propose…”

He watched her with his sky deep indigo eyes, giving nothing away of his thoughts. Nonetheless, it remained that he appeared to be reprimanding her for something he offered willingly, and it irked her more.

“Have reasoning and method behind each one.” She interrupted, as he searched for his words.

“Yes, your Martell veil, Dornish robes and musicians, fine. Even forgoing the bedding ceremony. But, Princess, altered liturgy and small folk? In the Red Keep?” He asked incredulously.

Elia had thought long and hard about every decision she made, and each was resolved to incorporate an aspect of each Kingdom into the ceremony, although Dorne and Targaryen customs were primary. 

Elia knew Rhaegar’s vexation was about something more than holy text and a bedding ceremony. Still, she engaged in the argument he was determined to have. 

“If you wish to truly unite Dorne with the other kingdoms, yes.”

He laughed humourlessly.

“In a ceremony with foreign traditions?”

“They are only foreign if they remain in Dorne.” 

Rhaegar was not convinced and there was a distrust in his eyes which disappointed her. That she would have to justify her choices to the person she trusted to back her was a veil lifted. Elia was naïve and quick to mistake sweet words and feelings of love, as reasons for the Prince’s actions.

“You forget Princess, it was Dorne that came knocking on our door for this match.”

Princess Furiosa’s voice played about her mind.

_‘Rhaegar needs you just as much as you need him. Do not let yourself be duped, my child. And if something needs to be said, do not hesitate to speak for yourself.’_

Elia had not known what to expect when her mother warned her of dragons, lions and creatures of power. She had certainly not foreseen Rhaegar as the first one to attempt to put her in her place, and she was enraged by it.

“ _You_ forget Prince Rhaegar, the fire-breathing dragons which bought all these other kingdoms to heel are gone. With every day your father alienates them with his unpredictable and extreme actions. What unjust execution or wiping out of an ancient house, will be the action that gives them cause for rebellion seeking not just to overthrow your father… but to overthrow _all_ Targaryen’s?”

Elia spoke plainly, for she was determined to show Rhaegar she would not be the push-over princess so many expected her to be. She could be sweet, yes, but she could also be raging fire. 

“I am looking towards the future and protecting what will be _ours.”_ She explained. 

“From whom? The great lords of Westeros?”

His eyebrows raised as his voice did too. It was not a shout, yet his voice was no longer the soft-spoken drawl she had grown used to.

“You have no idea who they are or what they want.”

Elia narrowed her eyes at him, the words received as insult. 

“Oh, no, I am just the foreigner from the lowly family of parvenus too impure to understand.”

She hated to reveal that Arthur told her exactly what the lords of Rhaegar’s council said, but in her growing irritation she could not hold it in. Elia was royalty, a princess in her own right, and would remind anyone who questioned her.

“Fine. You want a traditional ceremony reminding everyone of more of the same when Aerys dies, have it. But don’t come calling to me when the knights march and scream for your head and the heads of our children on spikes.”

At her words, his mask fell, and his eyes softened.

“Our children?”

They spoke briefly of children, something of a duty for him, but her greatest want.

“Yes, the dreams which led me to you – you came with our son.”

Rhaegar stood still for a long stretched out silence, something whirling in those complicated eyes of his. It was as if she said something he never considered, but whatever it was, he did not divulge.

He smiled, and the cold aura about him permeated away, leaving the sweet man she had come to know. When he reached for her hand, she did not resist, although she did wonder about his sudden affection.

“Very well. I will support you in your decisions.”

She accepted the kiss he bestowed to her cheek as apology. Although, when he spoke next, it seemed more in aide of lowering her guard to him. 

“I do have one condition however…”

He waited for her to meet his eyes. 

“…You must bow.”

Of all the changes she made, this was the one she would not compromise on. Dornish women did not bow to their husbands, for they did not belong to them.

“I don’t think it right that the future Queen consort, still equal to her prince, should bow to him rather than stand beside him.”

Although Rhaegar was crown prince and heir to the throne, he was not above her, and he promised to be her equal. Bowing would set precedence for the rest of their lives, and she would rather lose the betrothal than kneel before him.

“You would not be bowing to me –”

“That is not how it will look, nor how it will feel...”

Black eyes studied indigo ones, imploring them to understand. 

“…It will feel like my royal blood is second to yours, and as I recall, not one Martell women ever bowed to the dragons, we only united with them.”

Dorne bowed only once, when the Runaway Prince, Nys Martell and forty of the most powerful Dornish lords bent their knees in the Submission of Sunspear to King Daeron I Targaryen, after a long year of war during his conquest of Dorne. Had it not been for Nys’s sister organising revolts of the smallfolk, King Daeron’s temporary victory might have been a permanent one.

The Martell words were ‘Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken’, and Elia would remain so, even in the face of dragons. Dorne was owed respect, at very least from the prince who would marry a proud Dornish princess.

“You would be kneeling before the Gods and the Iron Throne as we all do.”

“Yet, you will not have to kneel before anyone.”

Rhaegar ran a hand through his silver hair, frustration etched onto his features. 

“I am the representative of the Throne. One day you shall bow to me, as your King.”

They stared at one another, seemingly a battle of the wills.

“You said you wished us equals in marriage. If I bow to you, it will ensure I am enslaved to you as the King has done to Queen Rhaella.”

Elia words were harsh. She saw the pain flicker in his eyes at the mention of his mother, and although she did not wish to take it there, she knew it was the only way to make him see. 

“I would never do what my father has done to my mother to you. However, I am also chained to that throne and have been since I was born.”

Elia tutted at his response. 

“Spare me the false humility, my prince. It does not appear that way to me.”

“How does it appear?” He countered.

“It seems to me that you were not honest in your intentions to view me as your equal in marriage and that you would give me symbolic victories in order to appease me and Dorne rather than true intent.”

Again, he watched her with unreadable eyes.

“Will you be my king or my husband?” 

The answer should have been easy. He would be her husband long before he might be anyone’s king.

“I will be both.”

Elia sighed.

“I want to be married to my husband and thus, I will not kneel before my equal.” She stated firmly.

Her mind would not be changed.

Rhaegar nodded taking in her defiance, and his eyes twinkled with the beginnings of a solemn smile.

“Princess, I am not my father, and I hoped to have shown you as much in all I have done. I am not the monster you fear I might be.”

His words made her think twice. Had she been too quick to judge him so harshly?

Really, if he was truly unreasonable, he would not have asked her at all, and she would bow regardless. However, she would argue her point to the end, for the feverish Dornish blood in her.

“Sweet Prince, if that is the case, don’t force me to bow to you. If I must kneel, let it be as it was for Queen Myriah and King Daeron II, let us kneel before one another.”

He pursed his lips and nodded, although if it was in agreement or in acknowledgement of her words, she did not know.

When the Prince left to return to King’s Landing, they did not again speak of bowing. The council were as unaware as she was to how they would proceed in regards to it, although the rest of her changes were supported by Rhaegar.

For days after his departure, she thought how strange it was that something so sweet became so complicated in a matter of weeks. Elia believed herself to have come to know Rhaegar in the earliest weeks together, but in the end, she concluded that she did not. Rhaegar was unknowable to her in a way that frustrated and intrigued her. She wondered what the future held, and whether this fondness and frustration and intrigue would ever develop to true deep love.

His answer came weeks later in the form of a letter.

_The Prince’s Letter_

My Princess Elia,

I am truly saddened to hear of your mother’s death. I know how close the two of you were and what she meant to you. She was a formidable woman and raised an equally formidable daughter. House Targaryen sends our condolences, and with Ser Lewyn and Ser Arthur, tokens of our shared pain that we hope you might find some comfort in.

I would also like to say, I was pleased beyond relief that the Princess Elia I discovered in Dorne was the same one I longed to meet from her letters. You were lovely, gracious, witty and have a sun-fire inside you to rival Nymeria’s, I am certain.

After considering all that occurred between us, I understand, with great clarity, your Dornish pride and why you do not wish to kneel. However, my position remains. As my future wife, I ask this of you, not in a sign of submission as my inferior in marriage. I ask this of you so that my first commitment to the throne I shall one-day sit upon, is not seen as weak. As I made you aware, not all is in order in the relations between House Targaryen and the lords of Westeros. Our union will not simply be seen as a wedding between two people of royal blood, but as the future King and Queen. The King bows and answers only to the Gods, and all others bow unto him.

I was sincere in my attempts to honour you, and in my words, that within our marriage we shall be equal. Hence, all other decisions you made in regards to our ceremony shall remain as you saw fit. That is how I honour you and Dorne.

It was fate that brought us together, and I thank the Seven for picking you to be my wife. I intend to prove to you that I am worthy to be knelt before. I look forward to our reunion and being your _husband_ , my princess.

Yours faithfully,

Prince Rhaegar Targaryen.


	31. If I Were A Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara and Elia hold onto the last moments of childhood and Sunspear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

**If I Were A Man**

From childhood to maiden years, to becoming young women grown, Elia Martell was a constant presence in Ashara’s life. No matter what fits Ashara threw, what misunderstandings which occurred, Elia would always smile and say ‘I love you’ in her sincerest voice.

Ashara always responded guiltily, and sometimes with tears, and Elia would took it all with an embrace and a laugh, saying there was nothing to forgive.

Equally, when Elia required care, Ashara was more than willing to step up, and allow the Princess to cry on her shoulder. That was their way from the moment they met; and whilst Elia was a princess and Ashara her servant, it never felt that way, never felt a burdened duty.

Eventually, platonic feelings, sisterly feelings, developed into something else entirely. Love. Ashara had come to the frightening realisation long ago and accepted to nurture it alone. She kept it locked away in the darkest recesses of her heart, only allowing herself to entertain less-than-honourable thoughts in the loneliest hours of the night, when she could see the stars hanging high, and when all things seemed possible.

However, Rhaegar Targaryen put a stop to all hopeful dreams. The enigmatic prince arrived to Dornish shores and stole almost every waking minute of Elia’s from Ashara. Inside her, a wildfire-green jealousy rose as she watched them fall in love. Ashara hid her ache and threw her heartbreak out in sarcasm and impudence, although little else. For the sake of her sweet Elia, she quelled the darkest impulses of envy before it could expose her feelings. Instead, she smiled emptily next to her, listened to her infatuation and calmed her worries, despite the unease gnawing at her.

However, Elia might have found a husband to marry and love, but Ashara had been, and would forever remain the one person to treasure Elia beyond _anything_ —even her own _life_. She would do anything in a blink of an eye and not utter a single word if it made Elia happy, and if _that_ , she thought viciously, was not the truest form of love, then she did not know what was. Ashara always battled the poisoned curse she inherited from her mother – an incapability to love – yet, if there was anyone to attempt to prove her wrong for, it was surely the sweet Elia.

Those were the thoughts which raced through Ashara’s mind towards the last of their evenings in Sunspear, before they said goodbye to their childhoods, home and happiness, in pursuit of husbands and a throne.

As the beginnings of dawn’s sun were bringing life to the cobbled streets of Sunspear, the pair returned from a final night of mischief. Ashara had accompanied the usually temperate princess out to the seedier parts of the city, as they once did during Ashara’s more rebellious years, in hopes of lifting her spirits after weeks of grief after the death of Princess Furiosa.

Unfortunately, or fortunately, they had ingested far too much sweet Dornish wine.

Inside the sunlit cocoon of their shared bedchambers, they sank onto the cool sheets, Elia on her back, her eyes transfixed on the heavy saffron canopy above them, and Ashara, draped across the bed, her head cushioned by Elia’s abdomen, and her gaze trained on those perfectly flushed cheeks.

“Lady Ashara…I do believe…” Elia hiccupped loudly, which caused them to dissolve into a fit of girlish laughter.

“…That I am drunk.”

Ashara gazed at her openly, unable, for the alcohol in her system, to hide her adoration.

“Well, I should think sooo, you consumed almost three flagons of wine.” Ashara teased, her own words slurring a little.

“If I recall correctly, I was not alone in this endeavour.” Elia reached out to tap Ashara’s forehead and distractedly slid her thin fingers into the mass of Ashara’s hair that laid fanned out over her belly.

Ashara sighed at the feeling, treasuring the touch, a grave sense of ending between them – an ending to the more romantic aspects of their friendship.

“Are you not glad I dragged you out?” Ashara asked, forcing normalcy into her voice.

Elia grew quiet, seemingly having drifted off, but when Ashara peeked up at her, the princess was staring pensively into the distance.

“Elia?”

“I am, I am…” She confirmed, idly twirling a dark lock around her finger.

“…This evening was exactly what I needed.”

Since Princess Furiosa’s death, Elia spent day and night distracting herself from grief by preparing to be Rhaegar Targaryen’s wife. Although Ashara tried to ease the pressure from her, Elia was positively obsessed with making the ceremony _and_ herself perfect. Ashara could tell the princess was trying to prove her worthiness for her position and their marriage.

The disagreements over the ceremony with Rhaegar were resolved with a single letter. Whatever sweet nothings the silver prince promised, Elia forgave him for it. Ashara suspected it had more to do with the loss of her mother, than the prince himself. Elia appeared to be latching onto her future and Rhaegar with the desperation of a lost soul.

“Yes,” Ashara’s breath caught as Elia’s fingers tickled her scalp.

“Your mother would hate that we have spent so much time in sorrow. If we cry for much longer, I’m sure she will rise from her tomb and punish us all. I can see it now…”

Ashara’s face graced Furiosa’s signature frown.

“ _Seven hells! What are you crying for? I swear on Nymeria’s blood to haunt you forever if you spend another day wallowing!_ ” Ashara imitated the ever furious Furiosa.

Elia snorted indelicately as she erupted into giggles, Ashara’s impressions always amused her.

“Yes, I agree, she would likely discipline us both.”

“Remember that time she made us write out every chapter of the Maiden’s Book?”

“Oh yes, when you snuck us out to watch the Whore’s play.”

Again, they laughed at the memories. However, a solemn silence spread between them, each remembering a life they were about to say goodbye to forever.

“These are our last few days together, before you become an officially married woman. You deserved a little fun, Princess.” It came out more biting than she intended.

“We shall still be together in King’s Landing, Asha.”

“It won’t be the same, you know that.”

Elia’s fingers halted their soothing exploration in her hair and Ashara propped up to look at her. She wore a worrisome expression as she stared off distantly. 

“I think I might-” Elia spoke suddenly, voice hesitant. 

“-do you think I have overestimated my suitability for the role of Rhaegar’s wife, misinterpreted my dreams and fate of becoming Queen. Mother thought me strong enough for this, but I have my doubts.” She confessed quietly.

When violet eyes met dark orbs, the fear behind them was frightening and Ashara reached out immediately.

“There is none more suited to be Queen than you Elia. That is why the Princess pushed so hard for this, she knew you could do it.” She answered carefully.

The words she truly wished to speak, telling Elia of Rhaegar and the Seven Kingdoms unworthiness of _her_ , would do little good.

“Sometimes I wish I were a man.” Elia admitted.

Ashara rolled over on her side, so that she faced her fully.

“Surely not?” she exclaimed.

“If I were a man, wild and free like Oberyn, calculating and clever like Doran, I would not be so restricted. I could choose to bow to no one, I could declare Dorne independent, I could- I could… I don’t know. I could just do more, be more.”

Ashara understood Elia’s position. The sickly princess of Dorne, not respected by the noble lords of Westeros, wanted at the very least her husband to recognise her as equal, even if he was to become the King.

“You can’t truly mean that.”

Ashara’s expression turned wry at the visualisation of her as _Elio_ of Dorne. While there were likely many benefits, Elia was endearing because she was a woman.

“Men are so boorish and witless. They think themselves better than they truly are. You are far too lovely and intelligent to be a man.” She scrunched up her nose as she spoke. 

“Is that so?” Elia wondered with a single raised brow.

“It is.” Ashara’s answer was definitive.

“Besides, I know you take particular pleasure in mastering your role as a _princess_ of Dorne, like the many that came before you. Thus, you will be the greatest Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Elia smiled with a look in her dark eyes Ashara could not quite place.

“And how do you know that?”

“Because you become practically radiant whenever you tell me about all the ways you might make the realm a better place at Rhaegar’s side. I know how much joy it gave you to have dominion over the Water Gardens, not for power, but for peace. I know you’ll be the greatest Queen because you have studied all the princesses of Dorne and Queens of Westeros and taken lesson from them.”

Despite the soft expression on her face, Elia did not look completely convinced. 

“I know you idolise Princess Nymeria and Meria because they burned as bright as any man. You respect Queen Rhaenys because of her work to protect women. How many times have you told me she established the Rule of Six, and made it illegal for the Ironborn to steal women they came across within the borders of the Kingdoms…”

Ashara sprouted off all she had learnt from Elia, reminding her exactly why she was suited to be Queen.

“…Or what about that Queen who convinced her husband to abolish the right of First Night, and argued for the inheritance rights of women, you know the one, she even estranged herself from the King when he chose to pass over the daughter of their first son for their second son in the line of succession, arguing that if a woman was inferior to a man, then her husband would have no need of her…”

“Alysanne.” Elia corrected her.

“Hmm?”

“Her name,” Elia extrapolated, “was Good Queen Alysanne.”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Or Princess Aliandra -”

Ashara stopped abruptly noticing the expression on Elia’s face again. That look where her coal-black eyes shone with a kind of awe usually reserved for shooting stars. Her heart responded to the expression by beating twice its usual rate, causing her to feel a sudden rush of blood to her cheeks.

“What is it?” Ashara wondered, buckling under the warmth of Elia’s gaze.

“You amaze me sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Ashara jested because the alternative was unthinkable.

“How is it that you remember everything that is important to me?”

There was a fondness to her voice, a specific tone, laced with such tenderness, that something inside of Ashara, an indefinable something, swelled with courage and she found words tumbling from her lips before she could stop them.

“Sweet Elia, do you not know by now? What is important to _you_ is important to _me_.”

“You are important to me, remember that.” Elia said returning her fingers to Ashara’s hair.

Silence permeated between them at her words.

Ashara’s fingers wandered and busied themselves by playing with the chiffon strings of Elia’s dress. Her limbs felt as heavy as her eyelids, which closed for a moment as the soft sounds of Sunspear’s dawn floated through the room.

“I pray that Rhaegar will be as devoted as you are to me.”

The words were distant as she dozed off a moment. Yet, her thoughts latched onto a tangent regarding Rhaegar. How lucky he was to have the beautiful Elia to be his to wed and bed and _love_.

After some thought, Ashara spoke once more.

“There are certain… _advantages_ to being a man, I suppose.” Her tongue was thick with wine and languor.

“Such as?”

“I suppose if I were a man, I could… I could be a deadly knight protecting those I love from harm, like in the stories.”

Ashara responded, speaking slowly, her thoughts clearly not assessed properly before she allowed them out.

“You despise fighting Asha. You refuse to even hold a sword let alone wield one.” Elia countered.

Ashara sighed dramatically, still somewhat affected by the alcohol, hazy sunlight and Elia’s intoxicating presence.

“Well, if I were a man, I could have anyone I wanted.”

“Beautiful Ashara, you have all of Dorne’s men _and_ women at your heels. There are not enough days in the week to accommodate all of your would-be suitors. Surely you have your pick.”

“I don’t want any of them. I want-”

When Elia sat up abruptly, displacing her. Ashara sobered quickly and realised the words which had nearly slipped from her lips.

“What?”

Elia gazed down at her, pleading with her for _something_.

Ashara felt herself unravel and unable to bite her tongue, despite every warning bell that rang against her ribcage.

“If I were a man, I could marry you, I would never make you bow to me, even if I were King. I would make all of my men bow to you.” She murmured, a mere echo of sound, but spoken and unable to be taken back. 

Ashara had spent many a night wishing she could be the one to marry Elia. It was impossible, of course, yet sometimes, in the still early mornings when all things seemed possible, she imagined that she could give Elia all she required, her ruinous nature and Rhaegar be damned. 

Elia studied her carefully, attempting to decipher the truth. Ashara shook her head and hid behind the mass of her dark locks; safe, where Elia could not see her talking eyes.

Eventually, Elia gave a smile as sad as tears. Whatever she was searching for, she did not find. 

“I am being ridiculous. I’m sorry. The wine and evening has caught up with me it seems.” Ashara spoke before Elia could respond.

“You are not ridiculous, you are doing what you always do – making me feel better. Don’t apologise for that my dearest.”

Like so long ago, Ashara felt like failed some test Elia was giving her, and this one felt like a final trial.

“Don’t worry for me so much Asha, Rhaegar has proven himself a good man.”

Rhaegar might have been the ideal man for her Princess. He was strong, handsome, respectful and preferred music to violence. The crown prince even had Arthur’s adoration; good Arthur who rarely approved of anyone. Ashara should have been happy that Elia had someone seemingly good to love her. She should have been happy for her. And yet, thoughts which came from a place of bitterness whirled about her mind.

‘ _Why can it not be me_?’

Ashara sighed. She sighed because she knew what was about to occur. An inevitability. The heady mix of wine and dawn created the most dangerous of potions and Ashara was engaged down a path of one ill-advised thing after another. 

A terrible question escaped her mouth.

“Do you love him?”

Elia was visibly thrown, confusion contorted across her features.

“Well, I have to love him…but, I do not know. I think about him all the time – I mean, our future, _our children_ – the little boy of my dreams haunts me nearly every night. Perhaps I am in love…”

She spoke as if it were the first time she considered the question, fleshing out her thoughts with every word.

“…I think I love him.” Elia answered, with a moment’s hesitation but a steely determination in her eyes.

Ashara did not know exactly what she wished to hear with the question, but now she had the answer, it did nothing but bring greater sadness.

She accepted it because her princess owed her nothing, afterall. They may have grown up together, may always be together and share joyful moments; still, Elia did not owe her anything, she was not obligated to reciprocate the feelings that she had for her. So, as much as Ashara painfully longed to hold her forever, she had to put her feelings aside.

“You love him,” Ashara echoed softly.

“I do. I have never felt this way about any other man.”

Ashara swallowed back tears and leant forward, so that their foreheads were touching. As young maidens, they would spend hours beneath the covers in this way, having hushed conversations, Elia telling fantastic tales of knights and princesses, stories told to her by a mother now buried and gone forever, and Ashara listening and gasping in terror or excitement, and breathing in Elia’s breath.

Now, they sat the same, older and this time, cloaked in misery and maudlin, compassion and confession.

“I love you.” Elia said sincerely, exactly the way she had always done.

Ashara felt illuminated and swathed with light at the words. Yet, simultaneously, she felt her heart clench on each syllable.

“I know.”

Something in Ashara could not bring herself to return the words in that moment.

Elia found her gaze, and she wore heartbreak Ashara could not understand beneath her dark eyes.

“I know you don’t like him. But, can’t you pretend to be happy for me?” Elia pled.

Ashara sighed again, eyes closed, and putting herself together again, after she had for one night put down the armour of loving Elia from afar.

“Yes. Yes, I can pretend.”

Elia smiled wide despite the tears on her cheeks.

“Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested to know what you think of the love triangle?


	32. To Love The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia and Rhaegar unite in marriage before the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

The eldest princess of Dorne, Elia Martell had taken a husband, and it was one of the worst days of Ashara’s life.

It was Prince Doran who gave Elia away. After Princess Arianne and Allyria Dayne paved the way with flowers, Doran led her down the great hall with a jubilant smile, proudly representing Dorne in his finest sun-orange silks.

Elia, hidden behind her Martell veil, walked up to Rhaegar with the grace of a queen and knelt before him. Ashara knew it pained her, but she hoped her own scheming – turning her honey-tongue to her brother’s ear and subsequently Rhaegar’s – would make up for it. Ashara regretted her plotting the moment Rhaegar lifted Elia to her feet, for the heart-stopping smile and look of _devotion_ which blossomed when Rhaegar called the Kingsguard and King’s council, to bow before their future King and Queen. If the princess had not loved him before, she certainly did after that. 

Ashara looked on painfully when the binding cloth was placed over their joined hands as the High Septon’s sermon ensued.

“Let it be known that Princess Elia, of House Nymeros Martell, and Rhaegar, of House Targaryen, heir to the Seven Kingdoms and Prince of Dragonstone, in the light of the Seven, become one heart, one flesh, one soul…”

Each word echoed across the walls of the Sept of Baelor, and into the streets of King’s Landing, as the realm came together to witness the future.

When the ceremony ended, Ashara turned into her brother’s chest, unable to witness Rhaegar finally take his wife.

“With this kiss, I bind our vows.”

Ashara barely survived the day. It was a time of celebration to most; a day to celebrate the ushering in of a new regime for the Realm; a day to remember for years to come as the day that the beloved crown Prince Rhaegar finally took a wife. For Ashara, it was more a day of silent and solemn mourning than festivities. Despite this, she stood straight and tall at Elia’s side during it all, the heaviness of her violet Crownlands robe biting into her flesh while the sun blazed down on her as if she had suddenly been taken to hell itself.

She longed to be alone as she dealt with the many depths of her despair over losing Elia. Yet, she managed to look celebratory when she needed to; but otherwise, she kept her distance from the merrymakers and nay-sayers alike. She maintained up until the feasts, when Oberyn decided it was time to liven things up and call the musicians to play.

“Princess Elia, wife, may I have this dance?” He asked and Ashara sat very still beside the blushing bride.

Elia flashed a look that was akin to seeking approval, and heartbroken, Ashara had no choice but to encourage it in her most dazzling, _fake,_ grin.

Thus, Elia agreed, smiling in reverence, in her orange gown and a Dornish crown perched atop her head of plaited locs, her beautiful black eyes glowing amber in the light. She was the image of a queen as they danced.

Ashara however, did not dance at all, despite the many offers which came. She remained rigid at her seat, a besotted wreck hoping to fade into the scenery, and not to stand out among the crowd **.** She observed over the Princess like the moon watched the earth, not wanting to make a fuss or let anyone know the discomfort she felt all day.

Ashara figured it was as good a time as any to blur away the memories in goblets of sickly sweet Dornish wine. So, as they danced and danced, she drank and drank.

“If the wind changes and you’re still staring, you shall be stuck like that forever.” Arthur whispered, coming up beside her. 

“Perhaps you should tell that to your own face brother, you have been staring at her all night.” Ashara retorted.

Arthur looked embarrassed for only a moment before his frown returned.

“I was not-”

“I meant Lady Lane.”

Whatever argument he had died in his throat.

Since the victory at the Scorched Rock, Arthur had cared for his cousin’s wife and son residing in Starfall. Ashara did not know in what capacity, but she could tell from her brother’s own doe-eyes, he too yearned for something he could not have.

“What a hopeless pair we are.” Ashara commented, noticing his eyes return to the Dornishwoman, who danced with little Art. 

When Ashara’s gaze returned to the newly married couple, resentment erupted inside her; watching Elia laugh affectionately at Rhaegar’s misstep, looking every bit a woman in _love_.

Therefore, spurred on by a _lot_ of liquid courage; Ashara finally rose to her feet.

She waved to the Dornish musicians, who picked up their handpans and began a new song.

“Princess, let’s show His Grace how to dance properly!” Ashara interrupted, stepping sharply between the two and offering her hand.

Although Rhaegar appeared momentarily startled, Elia still accepted the proposal, with a tinkling laugh and dramatic courtesy before Ashara swept her to the centre of the dancefloor.

They swayed to the familiar seductive beats of a traditional Rhoynar tune. Ashara pulled Elia close; rested a hand at her hip and Elia’s at her waist. They moved with a slow and sensuous purpose, in the same fashion as snakes coiling around one another; and advanced, retreated and pirouetted.

As the song picked up pace, Ashara’s body wove itself lithely in tandem with the growing rhythm and Elia’s hands slithered about the air. The rapidly enclosing space between them felt electric and burning. All she could see was Elia, all she could feel was her pulse quickening; and all she cared about was the pure elation of being free. Of all the pleasures in life, this was surely one of the greatest.

She flashed Elia a mischievous smile and suggestive bite of her lips, as she thrust her leg between her own, twirled and trailed her hands on her skin; downwards, from chest to belly to thigh. Although Elia’s bronze cheeks blushed, she did not pull away. Playfully, she bobbed her head from side to side, and Ashara stalked her gyrating form to the hypnotizing drumbeat. With each rolling movement of their hips, and alluring twist of their body, they told a story. Their tale was one of longing.

For a moment, Ashara could just about pretend they were girls again, performing in the privacy of Elia’s chambers in Sunspear. That was until she found her arm trapped tightly in Arthur’s hand.

“Art– ”

His expression was concerningly serious and it reminded Ashara so much of their father, it gave her pause. 

“Prince Oberyn would like to dance with you,” he interrupted, in a tone which brooked no argument. 

“I don’t wish-” 

“You do…” Arthur demanded, low, fierce, and eyes pointedly drawing her attention to the rest of the hall.

If Ashara had paid attention to anything other than Elia, she might have noticed before, the eyes that were on _her._ However, this attention was nothing like she was used to – open staring in fascination or jealousy, such was her beauty – no, this was contemptuous leering.

She recalled how some lords hissed under their breath when she had asked Elia to dance and the others that ogled suspiciously when she linked their hands openly.

When Ashara observed the scrutinizing faces around the hall, she noticed that the serene and joyful merriment was merely an illusion; many a grey head and pale face bore something sinister beneath their seemingly peaceful exterior. There was thinly masked disgust in the courtiers’ faces. It seemed all was not well in King’s Landing.

“…If you wish to stay here, you will dance him or _any_ other partner that you wish. But if you remain with Elia, on this floor, a moment longer, then you will _not_ stay in King’s Landing.” He whispered, through gritted teeth and a feigned smile, pulled tightly across his cheeks.

Arthur’s stormy violet-blue eyes drilled into her with every warning of grave urgency they could. His message was clear; her behaviour would cause more than inconsequential gossip and the lords of Westeros would question her proximity to Elia soon enough, if they had not begun to already. This was not Dorne. She was not free here.

Arthur removed his hand, kissed her cheek and smiled out at the world, as if he had not just lifted the veil of the King’s city from his sister’s eyes.

Elia watched them dubiously, before Arthur quickly diverted all suspicion.

“Your Grace, may I have this dance?”

Swiftly, Ashara launched herself from Elia’s side and grabbed Oberyn – stealing him from some poor maid who seemed completely prepared to risk it all for the charming prince. Oberyn barely batted an eye at Ashara’s behaviour and went along with it. He rocked and attempted desperately to cling on as she flung herself almost recklessly into the next dance, movements ferociously wrathful, despite the growing melancholic rhythm added by Rhaegar’s harp.

Due to a dangerous mixture of high emotions and heady wine, not long after, Ashara and Oberyn stumbled to her chambers. She was not thinking clearly, only focussed on ridding herself of the heartache which threatened to swallow her whole.

She had spent weeks preparing for this day, but she discovered no amount of preparation could ever have readied her for the pain which came with witnessing Elia’s marriage. 

“I’m not her,” Oberyn murmured, after Ashara kissed him. A fact of which she was painfully aware.

She ignored him and instead moved her lips to his jaw.

“I know.”

There was _no one_ like Elia, not even her brother or the whore, Ela, came anything close to the Princess. Elia was bright and wonderful and unique and _married_.

Ashara could almost feel the hollowness in her chest, the part of her that Elia filled. Empty now, with her attentions gone to Rhaegar. It was near a physical sensation; not quite pain, the polar opposite of pain, of all sensation. It was emptiness. A gaping absence that made itself felt by what was no longer there, a memory of what was and now was not.

Elia was Rhaegar’s wife, and while Ashara would always be there, stood achingly near; the moments in which they were closest – in the darkness, beneath sheets, whispering and laughing – those moments were over. No longer would they share sweet kisses or a bed. She would have to fight whatever demons that came in the night alone, for Elia was no longer hers.

With Oberyn beneath her lips, thoughts of his pleads circled her mind. Ashara chose Elia over a life, wild and free, with Oberyn. She wondered if she would grow to resent Elia for it, but it was a decision she would have to live with.

“You are not her...” Ashara confirmed, as she moved to Oberyn’s other side.

He shifted his neck, almost unconsciously, to give her easier access.

“…but you look somewhat similar…”

She traced the shell of his ear with her tongue.

“…Your smell…”

She nipped at his throat.

“…The taste of your skin…”

She gently tugged at his lower lip with her teeth.

“…You remind me of her. So, I suppose you'll have to do.”

It was entirely selfish knowing all she did of Oberyn’s feelings toward her. She had rejected his confessions of love and offers of marriage so resoundingly that he swore to never marry at all. It was cruel of her to use him in this way, dangling everything he wanted in front of him, but she did not know how else to drown out her desolateness.

Lady Dayne foretold Ashara would be like her – selfish – and so she succumbed to it. This was not love, not for Oberyn or Elia, but that is what she was; incapable of love, soiled and ruinous. These were the thoughts which soothed her soul, justified her inaction when she watched her love walk down the aisle and vow to love another.

Ashara felt her kisses become wet with tears, and the tell-tale signs of her body quivering with burgeoning sobs. She wanted Elia back, she wanted her _hers_ in every sense of the word, more than more than anything in the world; more than air, more than life itself.

“Shh…” Oberyn comforted.

Eventually, the sobs came, strong and fierce like the most violent of firestorms.

Elia was always there to follow her into the flames and pull her out, but now, that could be no longer, and it stole her breath.

Oberyn, ever Elia’s brother, comforted her in any way he could, held her silently as his heart broke alongside hers. When she had no tears left to cry, he took her hands in his and coaxed her eyes to his.

“I’m sorry.” She whispered.

He gave her a watery smile and waved away her apologies.

“You should see the wreck I have created in heartache, _this_ , is nothing.” He jested, although his tone did not quite reach a convincing intonation.

They were quiet a while, and for the first time, Ashara wished that she could have fallen for this Martell.

“Go to her.” He encouraged.

“I can’t. Arthur warned me of the watching eyes in this strange city. What if Rhae-”

“I will take care of Rhaegar. As for the watching eyes, I believe _our_ little performance likely directed all rumours to between you and I,” Oberyn interrupted.

“Go to her. You have something to tell my sister, something you should’ve told her long ago.” He held a knowing look in his Elia-dark eyes that knocked all denial from Ashara’s lips.

Consequently, she went.

Ashara found the prince’s chambers, and paused in the hallway, wiping uselessly at her tears. She drew a startlingly painful breath into her lungs, and her fingers reached out to trace the intricate patterns of the dark, heavy door. It felt so foreign to knock into chambers where Elia was, and she was not. She never felt shy about seeking passage before, but this was a special circumstance, a once-in-a-lifetime conversation that, as much as she did not want to engage in, had to be held nonetheless.

Rhaegar’s door itself was almost foreboding, almost a dire warning in its sturdiness and refinement, and if Ashara let her thoughts wander far enough away, she could even imagine the door cautioning her away from the insides of the room. But that was not to be. She needed to stay focused and not allow the thoughts and already-forming regrets to flood her brain and take over her actions.

She straightened, took a final swipe at the tears which had fallen, curled her hand into a fist, noticing the Lyseni ring she always wore, and reached out to knock softly **;** seeking entrance to start the conversation that would surely seal her fate or **,** at least, the fate of her heart.

Elia stood wearing a nightgown Ashara had never seen before, a translucent robe of the finest silk, and she yearned to touch what she had no right to.

She nearly fell to her knees when Elia turned, and her smile dropped at sight of her.

“You’re crying.” Elia commented concernedly.

Emotion overwhelmed Ashara and the tears she thought cleared away, still fell freely. Elia pulled her into a tight embrace, holding on like it was Ashara that was slipping away. When they parted, Ashara turned her eyes away.

“Asha, look at me…”

If she looked into Elia’s dark inviting irises she would surely fail to maintain any composure she was trying so hard to sustain.

Elia pulled Ashara’s hand to her chest so that she could detect her heartbeat. A gesture used to comfort her in the early days of her arrival to Sunspear, when she suffered from vicious night terrors.

“…I am right here.” The words were no louder than a breath, but felt as distant as King’s Landing to Sunspear, kingdoms apart.

“No, you’re waiting for your husband.”

Ashara shut her eyes tight, the harshness of her own words making her flinch and clench her jaw. She never used such that tone with Elia and she instantly regretted using such a rude pitch.

“Will you dance with me again?” Ashara asked suddenly.

She winced in embarrassment at how bizarre she must have appeared; crying and acting a fool on Elia’s wedding night. Yet, despite the clear exhaustion in her movements, Elia simply obliged the request and began swaying with her, with only the night’s stillness for music.

“Why are you crying, my sweet?” Elia whispered softly; chin perched on Ashara’s shoulder. 

All confidence she had no longer resided inside her. The confession she was so desperate to say seemed far too daunting to voice. The last time she voiced something so frightening to her heart, it tore apart her family. It was with memories of Starfall that her tongue twisted.

“I- It’s nothing, Elia. I merely had too much to drink in honour of your marriage, and you know that when I am in my cups, my emotions are often troubled.” She lied.

She felt Elia sigh. Although if it was from physical tiredness or something else, Ashara did not know. 

Ashara focussed her gaze to their conjoined hand, Ser Waters’ ring staring back at her.

“Why have you come here tonight?”

The answer was lost somewhere inside her mind and she opened and closed her mouth uselessly.

Alternatively, she decided if she did not have the words, she would show Elia, what was bursting inside her. Ashara took off the ring her father once gifted her and placed it into Elia’s hand.

Elia’s expression contorted into one of confusion and Ashara’s gaze pleaded for her to understand. However, no such understanding dawned.

“Your ring?”

“It was my grandmother’s, a gift to my father. He told me it came from a time when man worshipped the sun and moon.” Ashara began.

Her heart broke as she placed the ornate ring on Elia’s finger.

“There was a goddess of fire named Sun and a mortal named Moon. In Sun’s duty she was tied to the skies to keep the world afloat...”

Ashara recited Ser Waters tale, a story she had not spoken of since its telling.

“…Sun rewarded Moon’s love by sacrificing half of her skies; and Moon, chose to die each and every dawn to let his true love shine. They ruled the skies together, separate but waiting for seasons and seasons, for the rare day when they could coexist peacefully… and dance and fight and love one another.”

Ashara had once wished for the day she found someone to sacrifice for her like the sun and moon.

“I shall cherish this ring as dearly as I cherish you.” Elia spoke, a genuine smile pulling at her lips, as she twisted the silver and blue ornament around her digit.

If she comprehended the true meaning of the tale, she did not comment, instead, her dark eyes explored about Ashara’s face curiously.

They stared at one another for a long while, contemplation clear in their expression.

Ashara realised that for all its romance, the tale was a sad one. Ashara could not convince Elia to choose her, for the tragic ending of the tale; the consequences that would beset the world if Moon and Sun loved selfishly and existed as one, like a forever eclipse. A selfish love promised a great war, the death of Sun; and an everlasting darkness and loneliness for Moon.

Therefore, as much as Ashara wanted to tell her how much she wanted her for herself, she could not. Elia was a married woman, she deserved a chance at joy with the Prince, and so, she swallowed wholly the confession which danced at the tip of her tongue.

“I shall always think of you as the sun, Elia, and I pray your light will shine on the Seven Kingdoms. I-”

_I love you like the moon loves the sun. Completely, truly and always._

Her voice faltered as she held the only person she had ever loved in her lifetime.

“If I am the sun, you are the moon, and we shall rule the skies together.” Elia rasped against her ear as they held on tightly.

“And I shall die every dawn for you. Many will love you, Elia, but none so pure and deep-”

Her words were interrupted as the man Elia had married – the one that was to take her place in Elia’s heart – entered the chamber.

No words were spoken between the three of them, but the eerie indigo eyes of the Silver Prince blazed bright enough for Ashara to know it was time to take her leave.

Her heart died a thousand deaths as she took one final look at her beloved before moving. She bore little strength as she lingered outside _their – Rhaegar and Elia’s –_ chamber door for a few moments, listening to angered words which turned to soft calls of pleasure that echoed around the walls of Ashara’s foreign dungeon of King’s Landing. It was nothing short of torture, but she supposed that was what it was to love the sun, to feel her all around, and admire at a distance, but never be close enough to touch.


	33. See Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia and Rhaegar discover one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

**See Me**

The mood after Elia’s wedding was an odd one. Elia left the festivities after Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the master of coin, made an unsavoury jest in regards to whether Dornishwomen were like their Dornish steeds, ‘which needed _several_ good rides before obedience’.

It was not solely the comment which drove her to retire and await her new husband. Instead, it was a sudden grief which washed through her, as she realised just how much she missed her mother, and how lonely she felt without her. Elia’s closest comforts were missing in the moment she wanted to reach out. Ashara had wandered off with Oberyn, Arthur could no longer tease and converse with her as they once did, Doran had stormed off after a hushed disagreement with Princess Mellario; and her new husband was enthralled by his solemn melodies.

In the quiet of her new chambers, far away from merriment and celebration, Elia realised that things would be different forever. She would no longer be able to lean on others for support, for she was Princess of the Realm, the future Queen, and it was her responsibility to be the people’s mother of strength.

Thus, when Ashara had appeared at her door, crying for reassurance, Elia gave it freely.

Rhaegar interrupted a moment between them, which sparked an argument she had not expected to have on their first night. Although, she could not decipher if it was because he had been in his cups or if he honestly felt threatened by Ashara.

“She should not have been here, it is our wedding night.” He stated with a weak anger.

“You have nothing to worry about, husband. I am devoted to you.”

She reassured him, in near the same manner as Ashara, and something akin to guilt swirled in the pit of her stomach. Her words were not lies, yet for long before Rhaegar was even a name on her lips, she resolved to devote herself to her dearest Ashara. And if she once had murky romantic feelings, she had since locked them away in favour of what was expected of her. She would love her husband. She loved her husband.

“I have plenty to worry about, but it is not your _devotion_ that concerns me.” He spoke ominously.

His eyes wandered to the chair, expecting her to take this unsaid directive. Instead, she stepped closer to him and smiled, hoping to ease his concern, to no avail.

His refusal to smile, to show any warmth at all was his subtle form of emotional warfare Elia discovered. In the short time they had known one another, Elia learnt how easily he could switch from kindness to cold indifference. She experienced it once already in their arguments over ceremony and submission. She was unsure what consequences this might have between them.

However, she understood that perhaps she also was not so forthcoming, stubbornly sticking to her opinions for that Dornish pride of hers. Yet, in her new perspective, being the strength in spirit her body did not have, she approached him cautiously, wanting him to see her, so that he would allow her to see him, all of him. It would not make for a happy marriage if their gazes stopped at skin, and their thoughts geared only toward their own perceptions and endgame. They were one now, Elia reminded herself. 

“What does concern you?” She asked.

He watched her with his mysterious indigo eyes and Elia clutched at straws for what laid beneath them.

“If you worry for my virtue, there will be proof enough on the sheets, when we consummate our union.”

Elia understood how it might appear, her lady-in-waiting and closest confidant appearing in their bedchambers spilling truths of a love and intimacy Rhaegar had no real understanding of. If Elia had not known it before, this day the lords of Westeros had made it certainly clear they deemed the Dornish licentious and debauched.

“I don’t judge, Elia. Nor do I seek to condemn. Whatever life you led before this is not my concern unless you choose for it to be so…”

He did not care if she was telling the truth or lying through her teeth, for her past was of no consequence to him, no consequence to what he needed her for – fertility and fidelity. Despite her dreams of fate, they were both aware, theirs was a political marriage. Elia hoped that it would change one day in the future, when they had mapped each other’s quirks and habits enough, that they would be as in love as the songs say, and not just mere fondness. She assumed he wished the same, afterall, it was he who allowed a period for romance to flourish during their engagement.

“…perhaps I seek to know more about you and understand how we might fit together.”

The return of her kind Prince cleared all worries of his jarring ability to display boyish insouciance. Her father taught her the value of patience, and if he was so courteous with her, she would be the same.

“I shall tell you everything you wish to know.”

He smiled openly for the first time in hours. Elia had also been escaping the sadness he was indulged in once he started to play his harp after conversing with his mother. His solemn melodies only added to her own grief.

“Alright. I wish to understand the bond between you and Lady Ashara.”

Elia sighed, for that was a loaded request. Yet, there did not seem to be jealousy in his gaze, more an endearing curiosity.

“I suppose the best way to explain it is that even the sun is a star. We bonded together as children and grew to truly know and accept each other. We are of the same thing. She is Elia, and I am Ashara. Does that satisfy your _concerns_?”

All Elia hoped for was for him to hold his peace because she could never give up Ashara.

He was quiet a while before he smiled playfully.

“I, too, would like to learn about you, my husband. I would like to know all about King’s Landing, the people, your family, your responsibilities... your worries, if you will let me.”

At this, Rhaegar broke her gaze and glanced around the room before he returned to her. Elia noticed a slight hesitancy in his actions, and it disappointed her, as expected as the reluctance was. This was not a man accustomed to divulging himself, the broken and tattered bits of who he was. Even during his visit to Sunspear he had kept their courting period surface level; revealing enough to be interesting but not completely unveiling his innermost self. Still, Elia nursed a fledgling hope that Rhaegar would come to regard her with enough care to wholly open up.

“I can give you my word to try, Elia. I cannot promise immediate clarity; I am still discovering myself in many ways. There are things that need to be done, that I must do, that I can’t speak of yet. I will tell you, in time. I don’t know when or how, but I will. Although, be rest assured that I shan’t ever try to befuddle you with falsehoods nor lie to you.”

Elia felt her heart drop slightly at his words. However, her father’s voice rang in her head, reminding her of patience. Thus, she did not show him her disappointment. They had time to learn, to accommodate, and for now, she would believe his promise, if only to keep the peace.

She moved to close the space between them, coming to stand boldly in front of him and resting her hands on his chest – one over his beating heart – in a similar gesture she had done for another not long before.

She would love her husband. She repeated to herself.

“Thank you, my love.”

They smiled at each other, revelling in the quiet peace of the bedroom, of the still night, ruminating over the information they had shared.

For the first time, Elia truly believed that she could fall _in_ love with this solemn prince.

Rhaegar broke the stillness by inching his hand over her own, slowly tracing Elia’s. A curious tingling spread along the path he took. She wondered, as his hand soon held her cheek, and as his lips bent to peck her own, whether the actions were borne of Rhaegar’s own desire or as a means to legitimise the tentative beginnings of their relationship. Regardless, Elia felt herself respond in kind to him, caressing gently and moaning softly in tandem with the man who touched her, and whom she touched in return. This act did not require thought, only sensation.

“Elia…”

There was a question in his whisper.

She did not debate whether their actions were laced with intoxication and duty and fear and loss and recklessness. It was time to make a choice, and she chose Rhaegar; and if a growing feeling of guilt swirled again, she simply pushed it further away.

 _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_. _Unbowed, unbent, unbroken_. _Unb-_

“Do you wish to...”

Rhaegar trailed off glancing back and forth between her and the imposing bed in the middle of the room. 

Elia slid her nightgown off her shoulders, revealing all of herself, and she tried to gauge her husband’s reaction. Rhaegar shifted nervously, looking everywhere except her. 

His shyness was less endearing and made her feel self-conscious over thoughts of old insecurities; in regards to her pronounced bones and sickly constitution.

“Am I so abhorring to look at?” Elia attempted to sound normal. 

“No, no, princess, you are not…” Rhaegar was quick to reply, his eyes darting back to her before he openly appreciated her with a nervous smile.

“…You are lovely.”

The charisma that the dragon prince eluded was dangerous; it could draw anyone in. Yet, what made him endearing, was that he seemed oblivious to the effect he had or the power he wielded.

Elia quickly swallowed the sudden rush of embarrassment, they were both clearly inexperienced in such matters. Elia tackled her first duty to her husband, assuring him through their first physical act, despite her own lack of experience. 

Had Rhaegar been a man like Oberyn, he would have taken and fucked his wife for the remaining night, inhibitions be damned. Had he been someone like Doran, he would have gone away and learnt all about it before acting. But this was Rhaegar, her husband was a prince with the heart of a poet and everything about him was strange. 

Thus, Elia gently placed her lips to his own, until the body of the prince formed a contiguous loop with hers. Her fingers laced into his hair, massaged his scalp as he moaned into her mouth. Soon enough, his clothes were also discarded. They explored tentatively and connected in a new way. And after, if Elia felt unfulfilled and incomplete, she resolved that as with everything else, it would get better with time.


	34. The King's City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia becomes a Targaryen princess in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

The King’s city was a cold place, not for the coldness winter brought, but for the people within it. King’s Landing was nothing like Sunspear, nothing like home, and Elia had not expected to yearn for it as much as she did.

Nonetheless, Elia discovered a new version of herself here. In the weeks following the wedding, she committed to becoming a Targaryen in a Targaryen court. She morphed her thick, dark, Dornish hair into the Crownlands style, much to her ladies-in-waiting’ dismay. She no longer let it hang down freely in public, and in court, out of the corner of her eye, when she occasionally glimpsed King Aerys gazing at her with grim approval, she found no joy in it, only an extinguished fire in the pit of stomach.

Worse still, Elia instructed Ashara to hide away her samite silks, and bright satin gowns, and chiffon veils, and dutifully, every morning, asked her to braid her hair, and corset her into the heavy folds of her Valyrian style dresses, red and black and foreign. Rhaegar married a Dornish princess, yes, but Dornish princesses did not become queens. She was a Targaryen now.

Despite the initial surprising adulation and popularity with the smallfolk, within weeks, that too withered away, and Elia was reminded that she was an unwanted foreigner. It was clear when she went out with Rhaegar amongst the smallfolk, they wanted a fairy-tale princess to come and touch and turn them into gold, so that all their worries might be forgotten. But, she could not do that, for the King was still mad, the city still smelled of sewage, the beggars still clogged the streets, their rights and protections were still being revoked; and people still died readily, causing the stench of burning flesh to hang over the Crownlands like smog.

Elia found that even with her efforts to assimilate into King’s Landing, into the Targaryen family, there was little appreciation or acknowledgement of her by the courtiers either. In the Red Keep, the walls of the castle caged her in with cold drafts which left her coughing, and colder people which left her lonely. Here, Elia felt lost and alone, even with Arthur and Ashara by her side.

Yet, the worst thing about the King’s city was the scheming and backstabbing, the secrets and plots whispered from ear to ear that put Elia on edge at almost all times. There were strange sorts like; Varys the Spider, who was always whispering into Aerys’ ear, making him more paranoid; and Ser Lycian Velaryon, who bounced from side to side, between the clear division of Aerys cronies and Rhaegar’s supporters.

After the truly tremendous wedding celebrations, Elia had expected a longer continuance of joy in her new home, and in her new marriage. Her wedding night had promised exploration, discovery and formation of bonds that would last through their marriage. However, to Rhaegar’s credit, the immediate discomfort of her stay was not his fault. He was always courteous and dutiful, even if at times distant. And every night he came to her, gentle and less fumbled, although still a little luck lustre. It may not have been the passion she imagined or as thrilling as the tales told to her by Ashara and Oberyn. Still, she was satisfied enough to engage in it. 

However, in the third week in King’s Landing, after a harrowing day witnessing the Mad King torment his court, screams still ringing in her ears, Rhaegar came to her, eyes glistening with unshed tears and begging to be held. Without asking what had caused her husband to be in such a state, she clutched him to her breast as he shook with fear. 

“I am your wife now, my prince. You don't have to carry all your burdens alone, tell me what's wrong.” Elia reminded him.

There was silence for so long she did not believe he would answer. Although when his confession came, nausea swirled about her stomach.

“The King informed me that he was going to call upon my mother.”

At that moment, Elia recognised the distant sound of screaming, not as imagined residual hauntings from the day, but the banshee screams and pleas for mercy by Queen Rhaella.

Elia felt her tears well up in her eyes when she comprehended what the prince meant.

Eventually, sobs turned to anger, and his dragon-fire was revealed in furious exclamations with the louder of Rhaella’s screeches. 

After they knew Aerys had gone, Rhaegar calmed and moved to the window clutching the harp gifted to him by his mother. He played a sorrowful tune which drifted out into the strange city. Elia wished to soothe him to sleep with her company, but he retreated into himself, not accepting her soft calls of attention nor the gentle brushing her fingers through his long hair. He shrugged off her words and touch as if she were not there at all. 

“I ought to check on your mother.” Elia encouraged, and only at this did Rhaegar stop playing.

He seemed to come to some realisation before he nodded curtly in acknowledgment. 

When she arrived at her door, it was Arthur who stood guard, wearing the white enamel plate and flowing white cloak of the Kingsguard, appearing every bit a heaven-sent warrior, yet his eyes refused to meet hers.

“How could you just stand there?”

She realised for the first time just how much he had changed from the sweet knight from years prior. There was a hardness in his eyes only begotten from struggle and pain. 

“My duty is to the King!” He snapped.

“And the Sword of the Morning?”

“The Queen is neither House Dayne, nor Dorne, nor the King. I am dutybound, Your Grace.”

“I doubt Ashara would agree.”

He opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

Elia pushed past him into the Queen’s bedchambers, too angry and unable to wait for some conditioned response. The King’s city took the light from stars, and Elia feared what else it might take. 

When Elia entered Rhaella overlooked the city. She wore a simple black dress with a crimson cloak, and the only evidence of her attack was her haphazard silver-gold locks, and the burgeoning bruises and scratches littered across her arms. Elia noted that her slender figure was almost childlike, and her entire perception of her husband’s mother changed.

It was the first time they were alone, and they gazed at each other desperately lost. A mother without a daughter. A daughter without a mother. Elia had wondered about this moment since her arrival. The Queen, a once close companion to her mother, was a woman she yearned for some comfort from; not solely for some reminder of Furiosa, but for knowledge of the position Elia was in, that only Rhaella could understand. In their few interactions, Elia looked to the other woman for guidance in navigating the nuances of Targaryen royal court, to no avail. In the end, she concluded that Rhaella was simply uninterested in her Dornish good-daughter. Now, she understood the distance; like her son, Rhaella was filled with pain and grief.

The older woman lowered her eyes.

Elia knelt down and bowed her head before moving to her.

“You are the Queen, you shouldn’t be treated like this.” Elia whispered, opening her arms for an embrace.

Surprisingly, Rhaella leaned into Elia’s embrace and reassurances.

“He is the King.”

The words were automatic, like they had been spoken a thousand times.

“What if one day he kills you, Your Gra- good-mother?”

Rhaella fell further into her arms, like she had not been held with such a gentle touch in so long. When Elia considered it, she figured it was likely that was the case, and her heart broke. Simultaneously, she wondered what this indicated about her own future with a Targaryen husband. She was not afraid, although she was concerned. It was one thing hearing of the Queen’s mistreatment, it was another thing entirely being witness to it. 

“He is my husband; I am told it is his right.”

‘ _He was your brother first; both Oberyn and Doran would cut off their own hands before ever striking me,’_ Elia thought.

“What of your sons?”

When she saw the expression on Rhaella’s face, she immediately regretted bringing it up, for the shame the Queen could not hide away.

“Viserys is happy and loved by both his mother and father.”

It was true that the youngest prince did not carry any of his brother’s melancholy. It seemed it was only in his presence did the Queen show the most warmth.

“What of Rhaegar?”

She hated to press the subject, but Elia feared they would have little chance to ever speak so frankly again. She knew even the walls had ears.

“Rhaegar has duties and worries beyond me, daughter.”

Elia tried to look through her, through indigo eyes, and the harder she tried, the deeper she slipped. Her eyes were like Rhaegar’s; endless pools of still water, clear but bottomless, and _haunted_ , so very haunted. Elia shuddered at the darkness they hid.

“He would be a _Mad Prince_ if worried for anything beyond his own mother. How much longer will this go on, Your Grace?”

Rhaella pressed her lips together, a frown crossing her features, and demeanour changing to something icy.

“This has gone on long before your arrival, princess. How do you propose to stop it? He is the king, there is no one to tell him what to do. You might do well to understand that.”

Elia bit her tongue when Rhaegar entered the room.

He looked as lost as Elia felt as he gazed at Rhaella.

The King’s madness left them all feeling powerless. Rhaella, nor Rhaegar, nor the Sword of the Morning stood outside, could not stop Aerys. All of them were bound to obey the laws of his kingdom. King’s Landing was nothing like home, and for the first time she hated her mother for ever agreeing to send her here, and despised the Gods for leading her to the dragons den. So much was wrong and she could only hope it would change with Rhaegar.

“Mother-”

Upon sight of her son, she lashed out at them both.

“If you both so wish to soothe my suffering, then return to your chambers at once and produce a goddamn heir!”

That night Rhaegar made love to her with a fire he had yet to exhibit, and when gazed into her eyes, Elia saw such feral desire and raw intensity, that it sent a shiver of fear along Elia’s spine. Silently, she had to remind herself that Rhaegar was not his father. Therefore, she did not dwell on it because soon, he was there, and she was there, and they were both someplace morbidly, heavenly, together.

Once, they were done, sweating and breathless, an unknown ache coursed through Elia’s heart. She was mesmerized and disturbed all at once. 

Days later, despite the differing opinions of some of his most trusted companions, Rhaegar announced their relocation to Dragonstone.


	35. Brotherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur struggles with duty and an unexpected visitor attempts to guide him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur

Arthur had become disillusioned with the reality of the Kingsguard. His duties – guarding an increasingly mad king; ignoring and enforcing abuses in the name of that king; and watching Tywin Lannister wield unrestrained power across the realm dictating his own will – went against everything he learnt the Sword of the Morning stood for.

The truth of his role revealed that his childhood aspirations of joining the greatest brotherhood on earth was misguided. His duties directly opposed his own oaths and it weighed heavily on the Dornishman’s soul.

Slowly, the veil had been lifted. First, when he discovered Prince Lewyn’s paramour, and subsequently, the oath-breaking secrets of the rest of his brothers in white. Then, when the King commanded them to exact his vengeance after the Defiance at Duskendale; some of the things he saw and did were worse than any war, and would likely haunt him for the rest of his days. Lastly, the remaining embers of his naivety were blown away the first time he was stationed outside the Queen’s bedchambers as the King beat and raped her.

Arthur’s hand fell to _Mercy_ when the Queen’s shrieks for help alerted him to what was happening. The yells triggered recollections to his greatest failure; his absence when his sister was violated at the hands of another mad man.

His brother-in-arms and Lord Commander, Ser Gerold Hightower, who was old enough to have experienced the best and the worst of their duty, stilled his itching and sternly reminded him of duty.

“Should you use that sword now, it will be the last time you ever hold one. You pledge yourself to the King, and _only_ the King. The Queen cannot be protected from him-”

“Does that truly matter? How can we be revered as the Realm’s greatest and truest knights when we enact atrocities and stand by silently in the name of the King? Don’t you see the irony Lord Commander?” Arthur spat back at him.

“This is your duty, to be loyal and obedient to that hideous throne, no matter who sits upon it.”

As cold as Ser Gerold’s words, Arthur felt the pain behind them. He understood then why the White Bull drank himself into a stupor the rare few times he was off duty. 

However, he must have looked unconvinced, for Ser Gerold’s following words, as the Queen cries turned to deafening silence, were a threat of the worst kind.

“If you plan to go against your oaths, you stand against your _brothers_ , and should you fail, your sister shall be the first one the King enacts his revenge upon.”

There were only two options; to disobey or yield. Neither of them good options. The first would be the ruining of his House, the second the ruining of himself. Thus, his hand fell from _Mercy_.

Although the vows of the Kingsguard superseded all others, the love of his family, the love of Ashara, came before all else.

Arthur thought long and hard about what to do – he was nearly at his wits end, and fantasised about wetting his sword with Aerys blood; becoming Kingslayer. Yet, at the end of every vision he saw the violations of Duskendale enacted upon his sisters, his brother, his kin. Failure would see him be the last Sword of the Morning.

Therefore, he learnt to wear the skin of the stoic Kingsguard above his own. In silence, he recited his oaths to convince himself he was the hero the rest of the world praised.

The Kingsguard was the irreversible choice he made, and he hoped that Rhaegar would become King sooner rather than later.

Rhaegar was the only anchor to hope he clutched. They got along easily from the first meeting, and soon enough the Prince requested his company more frequently. They became brothers in all but blood, and Arthur believed in this young Prince to be the change the realm needed.

One afternoon, as they prepared to return to Dragonstone, he discovered Rhaegar in the sunken courtyard of the Red Keep, head buried in a book.

“What were you reading, my friend?”

Gently closing the book, Rhaegar looked over his shoulder and smiled when he saw it was Arthur.

“Lives of Four Kings.”

Arthur smiled sadly. His friend placed such pressure on himself to be the best of everything.

“You have read it before. The way you cite it without the blink of an eye would make Grand Maester Kaeth glad he made four copies.”

“It was one of the first gifts I ever received from Uncle Aemon.” He revealed.

“Is that why you read it so often?”

“Yes, partially,” Rhaegar nodded. “I still find it captivating. Every time, I find something new – and yet, it feels like familiar ground. Reading of those great kings and their deeds, their lives and choices.”

He fell quiet for a moment, then turned to better look at Arthur.

“I often wonder whether I will be like my father or become as great as my mother and uncle predict. The weight of the realm rests on my shoulders alone, and I wonder who King Rhaegar will be – what will he become.”

He often spoke of this to Arthur. Rhaegar shared much of his internal struggle with him: his hopes, his fears, his dark thoughts and his insecurities. Arthur never mocked him, nor was disappointed in him. Very much unlike his parents, who either thought too little of him – or too much.

Arthur rested a hand on Rhaegar’s shoulder in comfort.

“You aren’t alone Rhaegar.” Arthur reminded.

The silver prince spent much of his childhood with only guards and maesters for company. He never had siblings or companions of an age with him. Consequently, friendship was a relatively new relationship for him to navigate, and Arthur spent much of his time reminding him he was no longer alone.

He smiled at Arthur’s reassurance.

“One day they shall write tales of you and your great deeds. The great Rhaegar, the promised King.” Arthur explained. 

Rhaegar was sure of his path and knew there was greatness awaiting in his future, actively worked towards it, as Arthur had with _Dawn_. Arthur understood the weight of destiny, and the uncertainty that came at times, and because of this he stood by the young Prince’s side as his most fervid supporter.

“Is that what you think I’ll become?”

Arthur gave him a more serious look.

“I believe you are destined to change the world. Every great man knows in the end what they desire, and they follow their own path and no one else’s. That sets them apart from everyone else, and one day, it will set you above all others. I know it.”

“And you shall be there with me, Arthur.” Rhaegar concluded excitedly, as his hand caressed the cover of his beloved book.

“We shall do more than anyone thought possible and outshine those who think we cannot. You and I. For you shall always be there, will you not, Arthur?”

“To the end-” he agreed, as he was interrupted by one of the Gold Cloaks appearance. 

“Ser Arthur, there is a man that says he knows you, down at the Mud Gate.”

It was not surprising for Arthur to be called down to the gates, for he spent time amongst the smallfolk of King’s Landing with Rhaegar, and other times alone, when relieved of duty. Much of the time, he could do little to help or aide whoever came knocking. Still, guilt compelled him to do as much good as his position allowed.

When he reached the gate, he saw a figure he never expected to see again and wondered if it were some cosmic sign.

“Art, _brother,_ I wondered if it was too late to make good on your offer?”

Vorian Dayne stood tall with a new bulking weight of muscle beneath Essosi black armour, donned in the helm Arthur gifted him upon departure of Starfall.

“I wish to understand the strength of the bonds of kin, as you so pled to me long ago.”

Despite, all that happened in the past, Vorian’s war for Mother Rhoyne, and his subsequent disappearance when Arthur saved him, in hopes that they might travel the lands together and discover themselves; Arthur was happy to see him.

The handsomeness of his youth was destroyed by a scarred face with the permanent half-smile Arthur bestowed, but in his eyes, there was something of the boy Arthur grew up with. 

Vorian’s smile turned into a full teeth-bearing grin and he returned it. 

“Vorian Dayne.”

The use of his name made him shift uneasily.

“The prodigal son of the stars returns.” He commented.

“Yes, I hear Princess Furiosa is dead, and Prince Oberyn exiled. I thought perhaps it was time for me to come _home._ ”

Arthur assessed him carefully. Vorian’s muscular frame and general demeanour indicated a changed man. He hoped he was finally the man Arthur always believed he could be. The worthy son of Dayne with a destiny as bright as any Sword of the Morning.

However, he remained cautious, he had not forgotten the beating he received at the hands of Vorian’s Greenblood orphan brethren. He had not forgotten the hateful man that refused to listen to reason.

“Is this the home Mother Rhoyne intends for her _chosen_ son?” Arthur teased, and probed concurrently.

Green eyes rolled but his hung head low at the mention of their past.

“My kinsmen and many good men died because of what I did. I was lost.” He confessed.

Lessons were learnt on both sides of the battle of the Scorched Rock, and Arthur could not be so hard on him when the conflict was responsible for his elevation to true Sword of the Morning.

“And now?”

They gazed at one another, gauging for who they were now.

“I have travelled far and wide, lost and found myself several times over. My lessons led me here.”

It was vague but something in his eyes told of a harrowing journey. He seemed years older than his age of two and six. Arthur supposed it was wisdom he saw.

Together they rode on steeds along the Blackwater as they reacquainted. 

Arthur watched him from the corner of his eye and noticed just how similar they now appeared. They sat atop their steeds in a similar posture, both commanded the beasts with careful reign, and wore serious frowns that reminded him of their fathers. Were it not for Vorian’s scar and emerald eyes, they may well have appeared like twins.

It seemed fateful that Vorian appeared when Arthur felt more conflicted than ever before. He wondered if Vorian would understand his troubles, and yearned for his elder brother’s comfort. 

“How is my son?” Vorian broke Arthur’s musings.

Arthur could not help his smile when he thought of the young boy. Little Art was the seed of everything good to come for their house.

“He is courageous, astute and willing to think before he acts. He has balance, perseverance and intelligence. You might think me biased, as his namesake, that he can’t possibly be all those things, yet he is. He is good and strong. You would proud of him; the brightest star in High Hermitage.”

Surprise registered on Vorian’s face, and a soft smile pulled at his scars, and for a moment, all the darkness of his eyes lightened, revealing a great sorrow.

“He wants to be Sword of the Morning… like his father did.” Arthur added.

Vorian nodded solemnly. 

Long ago, it was Vorian that was envious of Arthur, but the tables had turned. Vorian possessed all the things Arthur now yearned for; freedom, a loyal wife who loved him, a son to pick up where he failed.

Vorian assessed him, a million questions in his eyes.

“The Sword of the Morning _and_ Kingsguard. I wonder, Arthur, is there anything you can’t do?”

It was said in jest, but Arthur felt the undercurrent of an old jealousy between the words. However, Vorian shut his eyes in self-chastisement.

“I can assure you there is little glory and reward in my duties.”

Emerald eyes filled with pity, but an understanding settled on his face in the end.

“Even in the Shadow Lands word of King Aerys has travelled.” Vorian answered with a foreboding tone about his voice.

“Is that where you ran off to?”

Arthur’s own hurt at Vorian’s abandonment oozed between the words.

“I spent my time in the Shadow Lands and Asshai, enlightening myself to the world. I found true purpose there.”

Arthur watched the passion in his voice as he spoke and saw that the anger from years ago was gone, and something else had replaced it entirely.

“What purpose is that?”

“I serve true justice and work to rid the world of corruption and restore balance. I’ve seen much suffering and injustice borne from civilizations rampant with corruption and decadence.”

Arthur’s heart swelled with joy and pride at Vorian’s journey. This was what he had shown him mercy for; he too was worthy of _Dawn_. However, it was not lost on him that the man deemed unworthy had the potential to do more good than the current Sword of the Morning.

“You have become great, like I always believed you would.” Arthur spoke through a rare beaming smile.

There was a curious look in emerald eyes, but for all their time apart, it was difficult to decipher its meaning.

“It begs the question though, why come here?” He probed.

“Is it not obvious? I came to see what had become of my brother.”

Arthur was afraid to tell him he was everything he warned Vorian not to be; a man blindly following the orders of a Mad King and creating chaos as opposed to extinguishing it. 

“I am a lost man and a slave to duty...”

They stopped riding then, Vorian studying him with surprised expression. 

“…sometimes, I think you might have been better off as Sword of the Morning.” He admitted, voice just above a whisper.

Vorian laughed humourlessly and his eyes travelled to the swords, to _Dawn_ , at Arthur’s waist.

“Perhaps that might be true, but it is not the case. So, you must turn to your vows as Sword of the Morning and find your way. Afterall, you fought so hard for my redemption, fight for your own.” Vorian encouraged easily.

“If only it were so easy. I am duty bound to follow my King’s orders no matter how heinous they are.” He repeated the mantra he used to assuage his guilt.

“What if you banded your brothers around, so that they might refuse any future orders as violations of their knightly oaths? Name them unconscionable orders. If you make a big enough presentation, reciting your knightly oaths, and make the people see that the king renders you not knights by his orders, and thus, not Kingsguards...”

Arthur opened his eyes wide at the idea.

“…That way, you might join me on my quest, truly stand as my equal and brother.”

As much as he longed for a way out of his position, he knew he could not. The King was mad beyond reason, and his Spider caught wind of plots before they even had time to formulate into words. The rancid stench of the last group of men burned for treason still lingered at the back of his throat, in the same way the Queen’s screams rang in his head.

“You speak of treason. I can’t. It would result in the death of my kin, the end of our House. My duty is to the King.” He whispered fearfully.

“You have forgotten the duty of the Sword of the Morning.” Vorian accused.

“I remember nothing else.” Arthur shot back.

“What is a knight’s courage?” Vorian asked, reminding him of the tests of knowledge they underwent during their Starborn tournament.

Courage was standing before an enemy, standing with friend and kin; and obeying the King. It was choosing the just path; even at great personal cost. Except, when he learnt those values, he did not expect the King to be his enemy.

“What is the sword of justice?”

Seeking the honourable, unencumbered by bias or personal interest. Acts tempered by humanity and mercy and wise council. Arthur had not known the King’s justice would entail acts against humanity and mercy.

“What is the virtue of loyalty?”

Obedience and unwavering commitment to House Dayne and the ideals professed. He learnt it could never be a compromise nor be given blindly. Yet, when the entire realm was built upon the basis that the highest order for a knight could be Kingsguard, how could he have known being loyal to his House meant being loyal to a king who could destroy it?

“What does the Sword of the Morning fight for?”

‘ _He fights to defend House Dayne, Dorne and the King. The Sword of the Morning’s place is in harm’s way, it is a sacrifice, and it is an honour_.’ The words from his naïve lips knew nothing of the distance between honour, sacrifice and the King.

“My duty is to the King,” Arthur reinforced.

Vorian looked at him with a queer smile, one stretching from ear to ear, but did not meet his eyes.

The atmosphere around them seemed to still and grow colder. 

“Then you remain on the side of the corrupt.”

His horse stopped abruptly. Arthur noticed they were at the crossing to the Kingswood and masked figures appeared at the brush. They watched him cautiously, and instinctively his hand rested on _Mercy_.

“Who are you?”

“We are nothing. We are the dirt beneath your feet.” An imposing man behind Vorian spoke, with cold, unmoving eyes.

The coat of arms on his armour was one Arthur did not recognise, although he could recall seeing one similar in his youth.

“Our purpose should interest you more, for we are the realm’s reckoning. Come to put an end to the corrupt order of our Kingdoms. Those that remain on the side of the oppressor shall be cast out into the cold world that we have known and endured.”

Something uneasy swirled in the pit of Arthur’s stomach as he looked at his cousin. It seemed fate had put them on opposite sides again, however, this time, he feared he was on the wrong side.

When Prince Lewyn purposefully rode up toward them, the strange brotherhood retreated.

Vorian put on his helm, hiding the warped smirk on his face, but before he joined the others, his emerald eyes found Arthur’s a last time.

“I think the Gods must truly enjoy watching the sons of Dayne fight.”

Arthur wanted to call out, find words that would redeem them both and bring them as one, yet none came. He felt like the weak boy he was all those years ago when he watched his kin cast out and remained silent.

Prince Lewyn watched the exchange curiously, although he did not comment.

“His Grace’s party leave for Dragonstone and he wishes you to accompany him.” Lewyn said ushering him away.

The pair rode in silence as Arthur’s mind spun with a thousand thoughts.

“Prince Lew-”

“We all have secrets. It appears you have your own now. I will not speak upon yours, in the same manner you don’t speak upon mine.”

He was truly a member of the Kingsguard brotherhood now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know, you know... so, let me know :P


	36. Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia's life is changed forever in Dragonstone, but is it happily ever after?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

When the dreary castle of Dragonstone appeared, Elia worried over how much happier life could be there. It was colder, more isolated and exuded a darkness that made her tremble. The castle was shrouded in shadowy clouds and a mist that strangled the looming black walls shaped into monstrous dragons. Although dragons were long gone from the land, the dark castle was just as fear-inducing as any dragon might have been. For the eyes of each grotesque statue seemed to follow her, and it was difficult to decipher stone from scaly flesh.

Elia found, with the new court at Dragonstone, that whilst she was never alone, she felt lonely. Rhaegar’s courtiers held little love for the Dornish and court was a place of icy energy. She grew to despise the smooth evasions and subtle equivocations employed by courtiers, particularly when she asked them directly about her husband’s movements.

One thing she had not expected in marrying Rhaegar, was the way that everyone looked at her with new eyes. They handled her like a foreign object no one knew what to do with or a precious piece of porcelain to be admired but not touched. She was no longer treated as a person but as a position, no longer a woman of flesh and blood with thoughts and feelings but a symbol; where the very title ‘Her Grace, Crown Princess Elia’ distanced her not only from Rhaegar’s cronies but from those within her own intimate circle. Even those who cared least her like Lord Qarlton Chelsted addressed her ‘Your Grace’ on first reference and ‘Princess Elia’ thereafter. Elia was disconcerted to be alienated from even those closest to her.

Nonetheless, no matter how much she tried, she could not prevent the shift in perceptions towards her. The confused woman, who was still both Elia Martell of Dorne and ‘Her Grace, Crown Princess Elia’ was in grave danger of drowning in the tidal wave of change which had turned her world upside-down. With greater frequency, there were times, when she desperately longed to be back in the safety of Sunspear with its palm trees, water fountains, scorching heat, jovial children and uncomplicated family.

Predictably, the only person who still saw her as herself, was Ashara, and in the rare moments they were alone, she remained ‘Sweet Elia, my princess’. Little between them changed, nor would it ever change because her love for her was different from any other emotion she would ever feel for anyone else. In more distant moments, Elia made sure to remind her dearest Ashara of it, for without her she was sure Dragonstone would have swallowed her whole into its misery.

Although it felt an appeasing gesture to her growing distress at court, when the fledgling princess was given domain over decoration of the castle, she believed it might change the dark atmosphere of her new home. Through a combination of brightly-coloured drapes, imported furniture and Dornish musicians the halls were transformed into a more welcoming palace, strikingly similar to the one she grew up in. But, beneath the musicians and the laughter, the discontent remained. She still heard the howl of the winter wind and freezing rain which battered the island for weeks on end. Regardless of any effort she put into the castle, it never felt like home.

Her greatest worry, however, was her unusual husband. Since arriving on Dragonstone all she craved was to spend time truly getting to understand him. Yet, it seemed, Prince Rhaegar had his own ideas about married life. His routine continued as if he had not taken a wife; often retreating into the library for hours at a time, reading ancient books forgetting his life beyond the books and scrolls. His idea of spending time with his wife, entailed company at mealtimes and dutifully coming to her chambers at night. It seemed now, his royal duties – whatever they were – took him from her side more frequently than even in King’s Landing.

She suspected his distance toward her was likely to do with the encounter with Queen Rhaella. Rhaegar had taken his mother’s commandment as holy scripture, and every night he came with her with the purpose of filling her belly with his heir. If she felt like a broodmare her gentle complaints fell to deaf ears and pacifying chaste kisses.

She did not whinge so much at her husband in this regard, for above all else she too craved a child. Although, she was sure her reasoning for such a want was different. Often at times, she remembered her own mother’s instructions.

_‘You must ensure your husband sits that Throne, and your children after him.’_

With such thoughts on her mind, Elia was surprised to find that Rhaegar discovered she was pregnant before even she knew.

He appeared one morning as Ashara aided her with dressing.

“Come Elia, let me find another.” Ashara spoke, after watching Wylla huff and puff in attempts to push her into a new gown.

Elia laughed, for the notion was so inconceivable for a woman who struggled with weight gain since birth.

“Apparently, I have gained weight, and nothing fits right.”

Rhaegar interrupted then, and in a gesture so unlike himself, he pulled her against his chest, and allowed his hands to feel up her curves and caress her stomach. She observed the clogs turn behind his eyes before he squeezed her tender breast with a tiny playful smile pulling at his lips, and gazed at her knowingly.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” She wondered, her comprehension far slower than it had been.

“My wife…” he said gently, moving to kneel before her.

“When was the last time you had _your_ time?”

Eventually _,_ she came to the same conclusion he did.

She laid a hand affectionately on his face and another reached out for a speechless Ashara. Elia was filled with a love she could not begin to articulate, and looking between two shades of haunting purple eyes, she felt whole. The Gods had blessed them with a child.

“I shall go and fetch the Maester.” Ashara spoke promptly rushing out the room.

Elia and Rhaegar shared silent moments of contemplation; Elia instinctively caressing her non-existent bump, and her husband on his knees head resting below her hand, basking in the joy of new life.

“I thought you did not bow?”

Rhaegar laughed.

“Ah see, you have finally tricked me into it.”

Yet, her joy was tempered when she gazed again into his eyes. Just beyond reach, she saw something akin to fear, panic, sadness, grief…hope…or something entirely different; such was the difficulty in gauging Rhaegar.

He was everything a prince should be but there was something in him that transcended the boundaries of mortal understanding. As the sun, Elia was resolved in that her light would one day unravel the depths of his seemingly unfathomable torrential sea.

Elia longed for some peace and warmth; and hoped that now they had a child on the way, they could find true intimacy and happiness. She so badly wanted to love her husband and have him love _her_.

In the months following, she chased after him in everything she did, and it made her volatile. Every time he looked at her, he was distant in spirit, like she was never truly seeing _him_ and there was something she could not understand. Strangeness and melancholy hung over him like the dark clouds around Dragonstone. His voice was soft, but his words were woolly; his smile was warm, but his eyes looked sad; his presence was engaging, but he could sit staring into nothingness, aloof for hours, his mind somewhere within his private place. It seemed there was somewhere else he would rather or was meant to be.

What made matters worse was Elia did not know why he distanced from her. She fought tooth and nail to attempt to pull the ropes that held them together closer. She found herself sprinting to catch him, and despite how out of breath it made her, she attempted to close the space. Yet, it began to feel as if the more she pursued, the wider the gap became. She was frightened of a day when the distance might become too great for her to cross, because that would mean she stopped pacing and attempting to glue over the mismatched shards of their relationship, and that the Gods were _wrong_. 

By her seventh moon turn, heavily in a woman’s way, she had had enough of her husband and his secrets and sadness, and one evening, after his return from Summerhall, she confronted him.

“What is the matter with you?” Elia asked with apprehension. 

“Nothing.” Rhaegar responded predictably.

“It is not nothing!”

Elia wanted to be calm, but she found with pregnancy she was often unable to control the waves of emotions which overtook her. 

“Elia, my love, I am fine,” he attempted to kiss her cheek and she jerked away from the mollifying gesture.

“That is not true. You promised not to lie to me and to eventually tell me of your worries and burdens.”

She released her pent-up anger in a deep breath.

“Rhaegar, we are going to have our child. It is time to tell me. I deserve to know.” Her tone was iron, and with her hands across her heart, she braced herself for the cruel truth. 

Rhaegar ran his hands through his hair frustratedly, a movement he did whenever he felt helpless, Elia noted but she was too focussed to comfort him. 

“You don’t want to know, I promise you Elia.”

“You cannot determine that for me. I am your wife and the only person vowed before the Seven to be on your side. I have felt your ache and carried it with me without knowing what it is. What troubles you affects me too, likely affects me most. Have I not proven worthy of your trust, have I not been a dutiful and loving wife?”

Rhaegar closed his eyes, and the forlorn expression on his face told Elia that he was contemplating on how to tell her. She kissed the rigid frown on his brows and coaxed his gaze to hers. 

“I would accept anything about you, I just need you to tell me.” She prompted.

In the end, he nodded and opened his mouth to speak.

“It is no secret that I was born in grief. I grew up trying to understand why I was born in such a way, and why my family were subject to that fate. I buried myself in books from the moment I could read to explain all this…”

None in the Realm did not know about the tragedy at Summerhall where a great fire broke out and claimed the lives of many in House Targaryen including; King Aegon V Targaryen, his eldest son and heir, Prince Duncan the Small, and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Duncan the Tall. Whisperings around the Kingdoms blamed the event as one of the many Targaryen attempts to bring dragons back by hatching ancient dragon eggs.

“…When I was eight, my uncle, Maester Aemon, sent me some of his scrolls and books. I thought nothing of them at first. Yet when I read them, I realised he was preparing me for my future. ‘Lives of Four Kings’ prepared me for rule, and his scrolls – well, they prepared me for something else entirely. They detailed the prophetic dragon dreams of his brother Daeron, the last Prince of Summerhall and-”

He paused then, to gauge her reaction, and Elia graced herself for the worst.

“Carry on.” Elia encouraged despite the way her heart raced and the child within her shifted uncomfortably.

“Within these records was information so specific to my birth and life I couldn’t dismiss it as mere chance. I found the answers I was looking for, and once I had, I wished I never wondered. It was foretold that I had to be a warrior – _the_ warrior.”

His hand found hers and held on so tightly it pained her.

“I am the Prince That Was Promised.” He finished as if she knew exactly what that meant.

Except, only confusion and fear settled in her bones as she looked at her rueful husband.

 _‘He is mad.’_ The bells in her mind rang. However, for the fear in his face, Elia tried to push the warning away. 

“Am I supposed to understand what that means, my love? You are speaking in tongues.”

He closed his eyes tightly, disappointment bleeding from him, and Elia rushed to make sure he did not retreat into himself.

“Explain it to me, I want to understand.” 

His eyes remained shut at he spoke.

“In Signs and Portents, I read _why_ Daenys Targaryen dreamed the Targaryens had to escape Valyria before the Doom.”

“That book has been lost for centuries.” Elia commented.

“It was not lost but kept hidden and passed down the generations from one trusted Targaryen to the next.”

Again, she coaxed his eyes to hers, gently stroking his face.

“Right. So, why?” 

“From House Targaryen would the Prince That Was Promised come. For many generations members of my house acted directly upon this information. Uncle Aemon and I believe Aegon’s conquest was governed by it, and it even spurred Visenya to urge Maegor’s usurpation. It is likely Daemon Blackfyre’s claim in the First Rebellion was too.” He spoke with such conviction and belief that Elia knew there were no doubts in his mind.

She was less believing.

“And what is this Promised Prince prophesized to do?”

He sighed deeply before he divulged his secret.

“I believe you already know. The Prince that Was Promised is also known by another name… Azor Ahai.”

The blood drained from Elia’s face and she felt weak in her body in a way she never experienced before. Her gut swirled with fear, for in Dorne, the followers of R’hllor preached far and wide about the coming rebirth of their saviour that would once more stand against the coming darkness.

If Rhaegar was to be believed, if it was true, her fate was tied to his, and what a terrible fate it was. Azor Ahai needed to forge a hero’s sword, and after failed attempts to temper the sword with water and a lions heart, he laboured for a hundred days and nights to forge it by driving the blade into the living heart of his wife, Nissa Nissa. His sword, Lightbringer, blessed with his dead love’s heart and sacrifice helped fight off the monsters of the darkness. 

As realisation dawned on her, she recognised she had misinterpreted Rhaegar’s actions, and words, and expressions, and distance for as long as they had known each other. He did not want to fall in love for he knew what he would have to do for his Lightbringer… she would have to die for the world live. In that moment, her heart broke.

Elia wondered if this was truly her fate, if this was why the Gods had led her to this strange man. Surely, the Gods would not be so cruel to her? She was pious and kind and loving, how could they reward her with this fate?

“How do you know you are Azor Ahai reborn?” She demanded, grasping at anything to disprove his belief.

“Daeron’s dreams envisioned a Targaryen Princess’ miscarriage, after the birth of her firstborn and after the beginning of a short spring. I was four when my mother suffered her first miscarriage.”

Elia was not convinced.

“The Ghost of High Heart, a woods witch, prophesised to my grandfather’s court that the Promised Prince would come from the line of Aerys and Rhaella Targaryen, and in turn, my parents married.”

“That could mean Viserys or your son, or grandson.” Elia countered.

“The ancient prophecies foretold that the Prince’s return would be marked by birth amidst salt and smoke, along with a bleeding star. I was born welcomed by the smoke of the great fire in Summerhall, and the salt – tears of those who came there to die.” He explained easily.

“What of the bleeding star?”

A pitiful expression graced his face.

“When I was ten, I learned of another born the same time as myself, we were supposed to meet at the celebrations for the birth of my young brother Daeron.”

“Ashara.” She concluded.

“Yes.”

Ashara Dayne of Starfall, was the fateful bleeding star of Rhaegar’s prophecy.

If Elia had not been sat down, she was sure she would have fallen to her knees. It was positively insane. Yet, she could not dismiss it as coincidence, for Ashara had told her their family story of the first Dayne. They believed him to have been the first Azor Ahai, and ‘Dawn’ his Lightbringer, forged from the heart of a fallen star and this star – a woman – Dayne worshiped and loved, which is why she fell in the first place, so they could be together.

Rhaegar’s closest friend was the Sword of The Morning, the descendant of the First Dayne, and possible first Promised Prince; and Elia could not believe how entirely implausible it all seemed. The Gods were playing cyvasse with their lives. 

She did not speak for a long while and Rhaegar sat silently watching all the emotions sweep through her. Although she had confirmation that Rhaegar would in time grow to truly love her, it gave her no comfort, only the worst nausea.

“You think me as mad as my father.” Rhaegar spoke in his melancholic voice.

Elia did not know what to think. His burdens were far from anything she guessed.

 _Finally_ , she understood her husband, but the creeping thoughts in the back of her head wished she had remained in her ignorance.

“Anything else I should know?”

He placed his hand on her protruding belly, caressing softly with unshed tears in his eyes.

“Our child… it shall be a boy, as you too saw in your dreams of the future.”

A beautiful haunting that had once filled her with joy turned sour with his cursed words, and she doubled over to vomit up the contents of her stomach. The boy of her dreams, the one she already loved beyond all measure cemented the likelihood of her end at her husband’s hand.

“As I said, it is not something you want to know. Now you do. So, forgive me my distance.” He concluded before he rose and exited promptly.

She did not have it in her to chase after him.

And when Ashara discovered her crying on the floor, mumbling words of moon tea, she was ashamed. Dragonstone was no home for the sun.


	37. To Give Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara supports Elia through a tough birth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara. 
> 
> Warning, semi-graphic birth descriptions.

Elia was placed on bedrest in the final month of her pregnancy, and of course, Ashara spent every moment by her side. Not only because it was where she decided she would always be, but because Elia’s husband had deemed it the right time for him to visit the ruins of Summerhall. Ashara even attempted to get Arthur to convince him better of it, but the strange Prince listened to no one when it came to that wretched haunted site. Were it not for the power he had to separate her from Elia, Ashara would have raged more violently than any storm they experienced at Dragonstone.

However, in his absence, for the first time in a long time, it felt like they were girls again; sharing Elia’s chambers, dancing and whispering into the early hours of dawn. It could have been as it once was, were it not for the protruding belly between them reminding them of just how irreversible their situation was.

Elia was no longer hers. She was Rhaegar’s, and now, she would be this babe’s mother. Yet, Ashara found she did not hate the prospect of Rhaegar’s child, like she thought she would. In fact, it seemed she was more excited for its arrival than Elia herself. It appeared their roles somehow reversed. And if Ashara pinpointed the exact moment it happened, it was the night she found Elia entirely distraught and mumbling nonsensical words of ridding herself of the babe in her belly. It was near blasphemy because Elia’s greatest want was always children.

Something had happened. Something that Elia refused to talk about, even when Ashara broached the subject tentatively, in the dead of night, hidden beneath the covers, when she promised that whatever words whispered between them would never see the light of dawn.

Ashara worried for her but there was little she could do. Instead, she remained clamped at her side as they waited for the birth. 

One evening, as Grand Maester Pycelle examined her, Elia’s waters broke and a screech that could likely rival that of dragons erupted out of her.

In a panic, Ashara jumped to Elia’s side, and tightly clasped the hand of the Grand Maester. She did not trust him. Elia had wanted her mother’s labour doula, a woman from the Isle of Women who delivered Doran, Elia and Oberyn, but Rhaegar pointed out that it would cause great suspicion from his father if they were to refuse the Grand Maester himself, and Elia had reluctantly accepted his decision. However, the moment Rhaegar disappeared for Summerhall, Elia sent for Lady Amai.

“I need room to work Lady Ashara, move back.”

Despite the niceties, his tone held annoyance. Yet, she obliged, seeing Elia’s screech turn to silent agony.

“It appears you have a stubborn little prince; he is back to front.” The Maester spoke as he prodded around.

“And this does not worry you?” Ashara’s voice was barely above a whisper, an unknown fear gripping her.

“I am confident that the contractions of the womb will move the child into the correct position in time...” The reassurance his words were supposed to give did not ease any of Ashara’s growing concerns.

“…The Princess moves ahead slowly, my lady.”

She could not shake the notion he knew more than he let on.

“You say that as if it is a positive thing,” Elia huffed.

The princess looked tired already, and a great deal weaker than she ever saw her; and Ashara had seen her through the worst of her exhausting malady.

“That will be all Grand Maester, I am sure my ladies can handle me a while.” Elia forced a casual tone.

Suddenly, something that could have been misread as annoyance washed over her features, as her eyes closed, lips pursed together, and her knuckles turned white as they clutched the edge of the bed. Ashara realised that it was the wave of pain of a contraction.

The _apologetic_ look that Elia threw her finally pulled Ashara from her stupor. Her feet had been fastened to the same spot, but now she moved in wide strides to her bedside, calling the ladies to bring the towels, ice-water and pillows.

When all was prepared, they sat in silence and Ashara searched in her mind for something to say. Elia had to direct her strength on what the birth would yet take out of her, she could not waste it on heavy conversation.

“I would do anything to bask under the Water Gardens palm trees right now…”

Talking of home was safe, the only thing that seemed to give Elia any interest as of late.

“…and eat blood orange treats…”

Her mouth salivated with the idea of the sweet tarts in her mouth.

“Perhaps we should visit Sunspear after the babe’s presentation to the King.”

“Perhaps.” Elia breathed.

The princess gave a smile filled with sorrow and Ashara felt the tell-tale pricks of panic surge in her chest. Elia believed she was running out of time. 

Ashara cleared herself of that thought as hurriedly as she could and returned Elia’s smile instead. Ashara’s fingertips swept over the back of Elia’s hand, halfway up her forearm. She found the tiny scattering of scars around her pulse point, that reminded her of the many treatment infusions healers and maesters attempted to cure her ailments. Elia had overcome so much, survived a life she was not supposed to survive. This would not be their last night. It could not be. She would not allow it. She would ride like the wind and move the heavens before she let it be that.

“How do you feel?”

“Tired. The pain is bearable still. Surprisingly so. Your presence helps with the pain.”

Elia was telling her that she would fight just as hard to ensure they did not part.

“It’ll all work out. Tomorrow at this hour you shall finally be one of those terribly annoying mothers singing praises about her dashing little prince, as you always dreamed.” Ashara said astonished with the confidence her words carried, far more than she felt.

Elia gave a half-convinced smirk and snorted.

“Is that so? Do you have any doubts that my child will be the most adorable prince ever born?”

Ashara did not think she would care any if it slipped from her looking exactly like Mad King Aerys himself. As long as it was born and Elia was safe, Ashara was assured that it would be the most beautiful child she would ever see.

“The Gods help us you are already there,” Ashara jested.

The night brought countless more contractions, and with every one, greater pain, fear and exhaustion settled into Elia’s face and bones.

Ashara gave her best to radiate calmness. She patiently followed her throughout her wanderings across the chamber, dabbed her wet hair out of her forehead, ran her hands over her back when she doubled over in torment; and held her hand when Pycelle returned and prodded more.

When night turned to dawn, Elia took a turn for the worst.

“This is my punishment for wanting to be rid of him weeks ago, wanting him to be dead. Now he will kill me... and Rhaegar will fulfil his damned pro-”

Her voice was low, but before she could reveal anymore, a wave of pain ripped through her.

Ashara’s saw that not only were Elia’s physical limits approaching, as the time to recover grew narrower, but her mental ability to mask her misery and dread was closing.

“Elia, you were born to be a mother. This is the exhaustion talking.”

“I don’t think I can do this much longer.” Elia confessed.

“Yes, you can, you hear me, you can. I am here with you...”

At the absence of anything else to do, Ashara pulled her in a firm embrace, her lips landing on her temple in a gentle kiss.

“…and we will do it together.” She swore.

When Pycelle examined her, he did not bear the positive report they so desperately wished for. The child had not shifted on its own, and the birth process was still developing rather gradually.

“You mentioned final options earlier-” Elia pushed out between heavy breaths of dire discomfort.

“No.” Ashara interrupted barely audibly.

“-I expect it is time you fill me in on them.”

Pycelle looked uncertain. The Grand Maester had accomplished a great many things during his years at the Citadel and in the Red Keep, including the delivery of Prince Rhaegar’s only surviving brother, but Ashara knew, that if given the choice between the princess and the promised heir to the throne, Pycelle would let Elia die. 

‘ _He has never forgiven me for not being Cersei Lannister_ ,’ Elia confessed to Ashara upon his arrival to Dragonstone.

Ashara hoped Lady Amai would come sooner rather than later.

“We are not there yet, not by far. There is still time. Your womb is hardly more than halfway open.” Ashara reasoned before Pycelle could plant the poisonous seeds of doubt.

Elia shook her head.

“I am in pain and I feel exhausted but not so much that it yet impairs my mind and judgement… I don’t know how much longer I’ll remain this way.” She admitted, looking up at Ashara lost.

“You _can_ hold on Princess. Grand Maester, is there anything we can give her for the pain or to sleep?”

Ashara would not entertain discussions of final options. It would hinder all hope, and Elia needed to have hope. 

Pycelle administered a Dreamwine remedy that saw her fall into a fitful sleep.

The ladies-in-waiting retired but Ashara remained, sat back in her chair, at Elia’s side. She could not sleep even as her whole body begged for it; could not even risk it. Instead, she watched Elia sleep, and prayed, sincerely prayed for the first time in her life. 

“Lord of Light, the Seven, _anyone,_ please don’t let her die. Don’t take her from me.”

She had managed to derail her thoughts and quieten the worst ones thus far, but it appeared that the distraction she provided Elia had equally been for herself. Now that it was gone, and there was nothing to do but look at her; she struggled to divert her thoughts from the worry of losing her. She had no option but to concede to herself that losing Elia was a legitimate possibility. Not something that was an obscure hazard, or a remote possibility, but instead something that – if matters did not alter – would arise.

What if Elia died? What if these were the last hours she ever spent with Elia?

In this state, Ashara could not find a single reason to not reveal the depth of her love. No absent husband, no curses from her mother, no amount of damage within her; and no fear of ruining her.

“You are loved, so much, but by no one more than me.” She confessed quietly.

The only answer she received was a deep moan of pain from her sleeping princess.

The Dreamwine had let her drift off, but did little for her contractions, which left her in a superficial sleep, that was interrupted by contractions strong enough to make her moan in pain, but never quite enough to wake her.

Even in the induced sleep state Ashara could see that Elia’s strength was wavering.

The Grand Maester returned thrice during this time and Ashara remained attached to Elia’s side, guarding with exhausted eyes, and gave him a questioning looks as his hands palpated over her stomach only to be on the receiving end of a shake of his head each time.

The child remained in the wrong position that made a delivery near impossible, and the womb was almost completely open.

Eventually, Ashara was awoken from a sleep she did not realise she had fallen into. The light peaking in suggested that it was amidst the morning hours meaning Elia had been in hard labour for two days.

Ashara’s eyes shifted to the person who woke her, Arthur.

The sobs she had been holding in exploded the moment she saw her brother. He held her tightly as she came undone.

“Hush now sister. Lady Amai will arrive soon enough.”

“I, I-I need her Arthur. I love-”

 _‘I love her_ ,’ thought Ashara, but she bit back the words. What she needed did not matter.

“Rhaegar and her child – and the Realm will need her.”

“We both know Elia is stronger than she looks.” He comforted with unshed tears of his own.

“You believe it, though, don’t you? That she will live?” she murmured, tears embedding into the white of his cloak.

Arthur hesitated too long.

“I do.”

“You’re a dreadful liar.” Ashara stepped back and dabbed her eyes with her own violet sleeve.

“I want her to live.” He settled on alternately.

Pycelle entered then barely acknowledging the knight and maiden crying over their beloved princess.

“If things keep progressing the way they are, I might be able to save the child. There is a method…” He faltered, considered how to explain it to them.

“…It is described as a way to save the babe by surgically extracting it from the womb.”

An unknown sense of terror washed over her. He was suggesting to cut the babe out of her, before they both died. Killing her, accepting her death in order to save the babe.

She shook her head so violently that she felt dizzy. Or maybe it was the horror of the suggestion that made her feel sick to her stomach.

“No,” she blurted in a rushed breath.

“Ashara.” Arthur reprimanded.

She ignored Arthur, shook off the hand that reached for her own and took three strides towards the Grand Maester until she stood directly in front of him.

“We are not sacrificing her,” she declared in a sharp and stable voice, despite the tears in her eyes.

“My lady-”

“Elia must live.”

“Perhaps when the Prince arrives, he might better decide for a plan of action.” He attempted to pull rank on her but Ashara was in no mood to argue with the old man.

“You will find a way to save her AND the babe, or so help me Gods I will have you murdered in your sleep.” Ashara ordered icily.

Her speech had not failed the intimation she wished to spark in him. He gazed at her for a long moment, seeking to determine how sincere she was. The realisation that she was deadly serious startled even herself.

Subsequently, he offered her a short bow and exited the chambers with Arthur.

Ashara remained there for a moment and leant a hand onto the table to not lose her strength, and to reclaim her composure. She was furious. His words, his verdict that this was their sole option, the only choice left to pass, wrecked her. She swallowed several times so that the tears of fear and anger would not again pass past her eyelids.

“I imagine Princess Furiosa would be incredibly proud if she heard you just now.”

She twisted around and met Elia’s tired eyes.

For a second, she had neglected that she was there too, and her stomach swirled with guilt for Elia had not only heard the Grand Maester’s words, but also her own.

“I’m sorry,” Ashara apologised.

“I know I shouldn’t have put it so harshly. But what he suggested was outrageous.”

“We should consider it,” Elia pushed out faintly.

She was resentful that Pycelle had established the approach in the first place. No matter how often Elia claimed to be thinking rationally, she was not. She was in pain and weakened and afraid.

Ashara shook her head frantically.

“If he expects he can save my son, perhaps-”

“It’s out of the question,” She interrupted, her head still shaking with determination.

Elia did not get to do this. She did not get to leave her, no matter how much her strength was wavering, she would survive this. She had to.

“I won’t hear another word about this.”

Elia looked at her with knowing eyes that unnerved her.

“I know you are weary and afraid and just want the pain to be over with, but this is not the way. There will be another solution.” Ashara persuaded.

“ _I_ need you to live.” Ashara confessed before Elia could speak again.

She knew it was a manipulative move because Elia had always given Ashara everything she desired for happiness. Yet, Ashara would play dirty if it meant Elia might just continue to fight, continue to live.

Elia looked at her exhausted, sweaty and _heartbroken._ She took their joint digits and moved them above her stomach, allowed Ashara to feel the gentle movement coming from her womb. The movement of the child.

“If I don’t make it, then at least he deserves a chance to live.” Elia’s voice was firm.

It was strange to feel it, distressing in a way, that the child was still kicking when its mother was in such discomfort already – and yet, miraculous at the same time. It was precisely why Elia made her feel it; to realise that there was already a complete little person grown inside her who waited to be born, who wanted to live. It seemed Elia would also manipulate to get her point across.

“If it comes to a final choice, promise me, you will have the Grand Maester save my son.”

The words shook Ashara to the core. She craved to draw back, but Elia held her hand where it was, took her in with resolved features.

It was not Elia who would end up choosing, Ashara realised. This option that Pycelle had given them, would come at a stage when Elia was beyond making decisions. This impossible decision would land on her and Elia informed her that it was fine to make it. It was fine to let her die.

Ashara swallowed thick bile away.

“No. You can’t ask that of me. I won’t do it.”

“If we both die it will all have been for nothing,” Elia insisted and Ashara knew she was right.

Everything that Elia had survived – her illness, her mother’s efforts, her marriage, her pain, her strain – it would all have been for nought.

If the choice were the other way around, if it was saving Elia’s life over that of the babe, she knew she would take the risk in a heartbeat. She wanted them both to live, but given the inconceivable choice, she knew whom of them she would save.

Elia was demanding something impossible of her, and yet, maybe because of the anguish in her black eyes, Ashara found herself nodding–all while perceiving perfectly that she could never make good on this pledge.

She understood Elia would hate her for it. Yet, if it meant the Realm did not lose this beautiful soul, she resolved she would draw comfort in the knowledge that Elia was alive to hate her. 

“It won’t come to that though, not if the gods mean well with us.” Ashara added, refusing to further contemplate the prospect of Elia not surviving, while she was still looking at her, still holding her.

Elia again looked at her like there was something she knew that Ashara did not, almost pitiful _for_ Ashara, rather than herself.

At the lack for any other forms to offer consolation, to still give her strength, Ashara placed a firm kiss against Elia’s swollen lips. Over an entire year had passed since the last time she kissed her. This became the worst moment because now she finally had, she cursed herself for every single moment she had not kissed and loved her wholly, husband and marriage be damned. Ashara would happily have been her paramour if it meant the passion she had for Elia might be explored completely.

A shaky smile flitted over Elia’s face as they separated.

“Drawing all registers so I won’t die on you.”

Ashara smiled as well, despite herself.

“A remembrance of what you would miss out on couldn’t hurt.”

“Only you would find a way to convince me to live with allure of a lifetime of Ashara Dayne’s sweet kisses. Which by the way, have been incredibly missed by me.”

As contractions of new depths hit, Ashara prepared herself to _finally_ confess her heart’s true feelings. She needed motivation to live, and love was the only thing to live for.

“Elia, I l-”

Ashara’s statement was cut short by a commotion which erupted behind the door.

“I cannot allow this, Your Grace. The Citadel-” Pycelle’s voice rose in outrage as the door swung open to reveal Prince Rhaegar and a cloaked figure who pushed back their hood to reveal the face Ashara had most hoped to see, Lady Amai.

It would be like the Gods to give her a saving grace whilst simultaneously stealing from her.

“The Grand Maester tells me he can’t save her, but that he can deliver the child...” Rhaegar’s eyes immediately found Elia’s pallid, twitching form, before he came to rest at Elia’s other side.

The Prince pressed a kiss to the lips Ashara had just recently claimed for her own. The brief relief in Elia’s eyes pained Ashara in ways she could not comprehend.

“Can you save her, Lady Amai?”

She gave a brief smile to Elia.

“I make no promises, Your Grace, but I will do all that I can.”

“Your Grace, I must protest-”

“That is _enough_ , Grand Maester.” Rhaegar’s voice was a whipcrack, and all in the room froze.

“I have heard of what you propose, and Ser Arthur has informed me of your work thus far. It’s insufficient. Lady Amai, you will have all you need. Grand Maester, do as she instructs. I will _not_ repeat myself.”

Pycelle gritted his teeth and managed a bow.

Without missing a beat, Amai dropped her bag and pulled out utensils and remedies. Within moments she was at the bed, examining Elia’s stomach and the opening of her womb carefully. Elia made a noise of discomfort at the hands that firmly felt along the contracting muscles.

“Ahh, Just like the princess herself and Prince Oberyn. The babe does not yet want to come out, far too comfortable with its mother protecting it.” She said with light amusement no one else felt. 

“Prince Rhaegar, she will need you now, hold her tightly.”

Fire rose in Ashara’s chest. This _caring_ husband had been absent through the worst of it, would have missed it had he arrived a day or two later. Yet, now, he swooped in like he was the all-concerned doting husband, here to save the day.

However, in Elia’s delirious pain it was not her husband’s touch she wanted.

“Ash…a…Asha…Ashara…” She whispered, over and over, in agony.

Elia lay in bed, drenched in sweat and pain. She was running out of time and they needed to move ahead before things grew worse.

Expeditiously, Amai placed a piece of cloth in her mouth to muffle her screams.

“Princess, I’m an going to need you to push, my dear.”

There was no reaction from Elia, not any that implied she heard her words at least, only the continuous moan of pain fell from her lips.

Ashara sat on the upper end side of the bed, right by Elia’s head, and held her the way Rhaegar had been directed to. 

Amai pulled out a woollen sling and placed it between Elia’s legs.

“Elia, I will help you, but you need to help yourself first. Push, my child, push.”

Ashara was not prepared for the scream of agony that came from Elia as Amai went on with her effort. She urged her face into the side of Ashara’s skirt and held her hand in a vice grip, the free one twisted into Rhaegar’s black tunic, near choking him. Were it not for the situation, Ashara would surely have laughed.

“Is this supposed to hurt her this much?” Rhaegar wondered.

Ashara bit her lip to silence words of debate at the stupid prince. Had he been there earlier he would understand. 

The doula did not look up as she spoke.

“Childbirth is not a pleasant thing generally. This method does not pass it easier either.”

She continued her work until the next contraction built, and only then Elia seemed incapable to take a moment longer and her legs closed of their own accord and she extended up to push intruding hands away.

“Hold her hands and keep her legs open.” She instructed.

When she made another attempt Rhaegar stopped her.

“She needs a break,” he ordered.

“She needs this babe out of her,” Ashara answered bitingly.

Ashara brushed a hand through Elia’s damp hair as she only gradually recovered her breathing.

“You can do this Elia, just stay with us.” She whispered.

Rhaegar shook his head but stilled his tongue.

“Lady Ashara is right, despite the pain we need to work quickly. Hold her tightly, both of you.”

Promptly Ashara and Rhaegar held on even tighter, leaving little room for Elia’s wriggling.

Weak sounds protest left Elia’s lips and her head fell back against Ashara’s shoulder. Elia rested heavy against her, not an ounce of strength left in her body.

Ashara watched how Amai knelt between Elia’s legs with the woollen sling as she assumed for the exact position of the child. She acted with swift and precise gestures, and still Elia arched up by the sheer unbelievable agony and suddenly what had been so simple before, holding her against herself, spun into quite the challenge. Elia started shaking her head, struggling to push intruding hands to let her alone and Ashara tightened her grasp, her nails sinking into Elia’s skin in order not to let her shift away.

“No, no, please… _please_ , no...”

Elia begged and cried until there were no words to tell them to leave her alone. This new unknown pain adequate to wake her from her stupor, but no one had any mercy on her and it felt like an eternity until Amai finally accomplished what she was seeking to achieve and the small legs of a child emerged with the other end of the string. Elia released a scream so loud Ashara’s ears rang, before falling back against her, a sobbing mess with only enough strength left in her to shake her head.

Ashara feared something had gone wrong, she heard a noise, a rip. Nonetheless, Amai’s expression was hopeful despite the amount of blood on her hands. She only gave Elia a minute to breathe before she cleaned her hands on the cloth in her lap and took Elia’s face between them.

“A few more pushes princess, that is all,” she told her resolutely.

If Elia had heard the words, she did not acknowledge them. Maybe could not. For a moment Ashara was frightened that she might have lost consciousness, but then she noticed her muscles stiffen, as a fresh pain built within her.

“Please do not give up now, you’re practically there, Elia,” she told her and felt the cold sweat as she urged her cheek against Elia’s.

“I need you to push, Your Grace.”

She could see that Elia tried working with the pain. Her eyes were squeezed tight and her whole body lifted itself the slightest bit, but it was not adequate.

“I can’t…” she whispered, exhausted.

“Yes, you can.” Ashara’s arms around her tightened, she was so incredibly glad to hear her voice.

Yet, her whispers turned to hysterical cries as another contraction came.

“I’m going to die…I’m going to die…”

She turned her mutters to Rhaegar.

“…for you… and your prophecies… and your dynasty!”

There was something amiss between the married royalty, something that showed them clearly on opposing sides now, for Rhaegar stormed out the room.

“You aren’t going anywhere, we got you this far, you’re almost there.”

Elia shook her head.

“Rhaegar…” She whimpered out.

With his exit, she seemed less inclined to push.

“Please, just push one more time… do it for me.” Ashara pleaded, her voice hoarse.

“Never mind that Elia, she is almost out.” Amai interrupted.

Elia’s eyes fluttered open.

“She?” It was a breathless whisper.

Ashara peaked forward and saw that the child’s lower body was almost altogether out of her, and yes – s _he_ – undoubtedly a little girl.

A teary sound escaped Ashara, and she drew Elia more tightly against herself.

“Yes, _she_. Your daughter.”

The discovery let Elia gather her last remnants of strength and with the next contraction she pushed.

There was a grasp of release that went through Elia’s rigid body, through the whole room. The breath that Elia had taken was long and heavy, not shallow like the ones before and it resulted in an anguished sob.

Eventually, Amai emerged with a tiny girl in her hands and brought the babe into her trembling arms, against her chest, a linen towel protecting her from the cold and Elia held her to herself, sobbing.

Ashara’s hands supported the arms that held the child and pressed her cheek against Elia’s, as she glanced over her shoulder, at the newborn girl, whose screams turned to whimpers now that she laid against her mother’s heart. Only then did Ashara recognize that the tears she felt on her face were no longer just Elia’s.

However, momentous joy turned to palpable fear. Within moments, Elia’s hands went limp and she lost consciousness.

Something had gone terribly wrong.


	38. When She Wakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they wait for Elia to rise again, Arthur confronts his friend and master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur

It had been three long days since Elia gave birth and fell into a sleep none knew she would wake from.

Ashara remained caring for both princesses and Arthur saw the toll it took on her. She sported purple bags around her swollen eyes and even her usually perfect hair was in disarray. Yet, her spirit did not waver, she fluttered around Elia, talking like the conversation would will her to wake. Even the littlest princess, was cared for with an attentiveness Ashara had never shown before – it seemed his sister did not dislike children as much as she believed – although, he was sure it was because this child was all Elia, and for that she clung on more protectively.

“How is she, Asha?”

Swaddled in his sister’s arms was a Targaryen princess with the beauty of Dorne in her bronze skin and the prize of Valyria in her indigo eyes.

“The little princess wants for her mother and father. She cries all day and barely accepts the milk from the wet-nurse, I don’t know what to do, Art.”

“You are doing a wonderful job, if Elia should wake, she would be undoubtably grateful and proud of all you have done for her and her babe.”

“ _When_ she wakes.” Ashara corrected.

“Yes, when she wakes.” He said with a confidence he did not feel.

Ashara studied him with narrowed eyes, and for the first time it was unnerving because he was positive, she could see his wavering belief. 

“Has Rhaegar come?” He said quickly.

The exhaustion on her face contorted into pure distain, and for a moment, he could not blame her. She knew little of Rhaegar, and from the outside Arthur could see how it appeared, that the Prince was negligent and indifferent both as a husband and a father. Whilst it was true, to an extent, Rhaegar was not maliciously so absent. He was yet to understand the difference between intent and consequence.

“For now, you are the first outside the birthing chamber to be introduced to the new princess.”

“A great day for the realm.” In spite of the words, his eyes were on Elia, pale and near-lifeless on the bed.

“When she wakes.” He repeated to himself, pulling himself from dark thoughts.

Sensing his growing fear, Ashara redirected his attention.

“Here.”

She passed over the tiny child into his arms and immediately he felt a rush of emotions overcome him. In his mind, he returned to one of his earliest memories; a child barely old enough to talk, and his mother placed newborn Ashara in his arms. An innocent babe who needed all the protection in the world. It was not long thereafter he had waddled over to Palestone Sword Tower and dreamt of wielding Dawn to protect his sister from all manner of threat.

Gazing at the tiny princess, he saw she resembled Ashara in many ways, the violet eyes, the Dornish skin and wisps of dark hair. For that alone, he suddenly felt a responsibility to protect this child too.

The babe settled into his arms with a yawn that pulled at his heartstrings, and then she smiled as sweetly as a Dornish orange, filling him with a sunshine he never knew existed in the world. He finally understood the pull within women to coo at the simple things’ children did.

“She likes you.” Ashara commented, looking at the interaction lovingly.

His thoughts wondered to Rhaegar then, and anger rose within his chest. How there was anything more important than his little girl and possibly dying wife, was beyond him.

“It seems, despite your best efforts, you now have two children who will likely see you as their father.” Ashara added.

Young Art, Vorian’s son, had called him father the last time he visited, and Arthur did not have the heart to correct him otherwise, not when it was clear his father never intended to return to him.

“And where is the Prince?” Arthur asked, unable to hide his own annoyance.

“Last I heard he was in the sept.”

Arthur knew he had stormed out of the birthing chamber some days ago, likely taken time in the library to calm himself, but he was surprised to discover his new location.

“Then I think it is about time he met his daughter.”

Dawn’s light was just beginning to break when Arthur arrived at the doorway to Dragonstone’s sept. Rhaegar was kneeling before the Stranger’s altar – a bizarre choice, since childbirth was the Mother’s domain. 

‘ _But death is the Stranger’s_.’ Arthur realised.

Were it not for the babe in his arms, Arthur would have shaken some sense into the seemingly senseless prince.

Instead, as the baby gave a soft whimper, he remained quiet and moved closer to the Stranger’s altar.

Rhaegar seemed half a statue himself, head bowed and silver hair concealing his face from view. As he approached, he realised the Prince was whispering, and not to him.

“…Let her live. I need her. I need her _here_ when the time comes. I understand I cannot cheat the Gods, I know I have done wrong, that much is clear-”

Rhaegar noticed him then, and when he came into view, he faired worse than Arthur predicted. He looked tired and gaunt, as if he had been knelt at the alter for so long he was a part of it. 

Steeling himself, Arthur stepped forward to present the Prince of Dragonstone with his daughter.

“Your Grace, I have someone for you to meet.” Arthur announced.

Shock and an array of other emotions Arthur could not quite read registered on his face as he took the babe in.

“She is my daughter?” It was both a question and a statement, his voice breathless and full of wonder.

The little princess responded in kind to her father; her tiny hand curling around his smallest finger, she peered through brand new eyes at what must have been such a strange world after life in the womb. Her legs kicked in a tiny jagged motion and when she stretched, her hands barely rose above her head, yet it seemed she knew already who her father was.

All former anger Arthur had at Rhaegar disappeared watching him bond with his child.

“She is your blessing. Lucky for her, she is every bit her mother, although the Seven granted you a bit of vanity and coloured her eyes the same as yours.” Arthur jested.

“Look how beautiful she is.”

Rhaegar blinked in disbelief and tears fell from the watery smile that tugged at his cheeks.

The little princess’ gentle coos quickly turned to violent cries neither man was expecting. Surprisingly, Rhaegar took the shrieking bundle from Arthur and jiggled her in his arms in a comforting way. Although the fractious babe continued to cry, the prince did not seem utterly out of his depth. He held her close, bobbing and swaying to unheard music, humming a slow lullaby, quite hopeful, quite serene, quite unlike himself. Soon, the harsh cries softened to sniffles.

“It seems my little princess was born with a hurricane for a soul,” he said in an affectionate way, with the soft glow of a loving father in his eyes. 

“She has the sun in her skin and the heart of a dragon. What will you name her?”

“Rhaenys.”

“But – ”

The Martells would not like it considering what had begotten the first Rhaenys in Dorne. The second, Queen Who Never Was, made it all but a cursed name.

“For my mother and the daughter she never got to have. Besides, is it not fitting that Rhaenys Targaryen is born again from a Martell Princess of Dorne. See it as a revival, if you will.” He explained.

The fight for the name died in Arthur’s throat, this was not the hill he would die on. He had greater concerns regarding his friend, especially when his next words came.

“I must write to Uncle Aemon at once.” He uttered with urgency.

Once abandoned anger returned to Arthur. 

“Rhaegar, friend, can’t it wait? Your wife has yet to wake, and your child needs you.”

“I don’t believe that the first face my wife will wish to see when she wakes up will be mine.” Rhaegar looked at him knowingly.

Although that was likely true, Arthur had observed Elia try everything in her power to love her complicated husband. He needed to be there.

“It is your duty to be there. If not for Elia, for your daughter.”

Rhaegar wrestled with some unknown quarrel in his head.

“It is time to admit you were wrong, damn it!” Arthur snapped.

Rhaegar’s brows rose in surprise at Arthur’s temper, never having witnessed him like this before.

Arthur released a calming breathe through his nose.

“Forgive me, but, I, as your loyal friend and trusted servant, have listened and reasoned to understand your prophecies but... you were _wrong_.” He explained calmer.

Rhaegar’s haunting indigo eyes gazed at him solemnly.

“Rhaenys birth changes nothing.”

Had Arthur not stumbled upon his prayers he might have believed him. Rhaegar was doubting his beliefs even if he was not yet ready to admit it aloud. 

“You were certain you were having a son. Rhaenys is proof that perhaps you may not be so cursed to be Azor Ahai reborn, as we believed. Don’t you see? This means you can find a modicum of happiness in this miserable existence. Focus solely on becoming a great and wise King, a doting husband, and for a generation, at least, forget about the impending doom of darkness… there is enough darkness in this world already.” Arthur pleaded.

Rhaegar did almost all things in servitude to his role, although all to his own misery. It seeped into every action he took, and no matter the consequences, tearing himself, his family and friendship apart – be damned.

“And if I pursue whatever happiness means, instead of truth, the world ends.”

When Arthur met his gaze, the swirling indigo irises generated a feeling like he was being pulled into a lake of frozen emotions. It was like all the myriad shades of purple swirled together to form a whirlpool of apprehension.

“The world cannot afford for me to choose myself.”

There were times, like now, where his humanity was lost, when he wore the suit of saviour, when he was the man the world demanded. Arthur felt angered and pitiful for the prince, a slave to his own destiny. 

“It will ruin your life.” Arthur warned, seeing for the first time the direction it was all headed in.

“It has already ruined my life.” He answered simply.

There was no heat in his voice, as if his heartbeat so steadily, even though he took an entirely different view from Arthur’s own.

“What of Elia and Rhaenys, do they not deserve joy?”

Despite the enamoured expression that had been on his face when he stared down at his daughter, Rhaegar’s frown deepened.

“I already give Elia all the love I have inside to give. And now she has the joy of a being a mother. What more would you have of me?” He reasoned as if it were enough.

Elia deserved to live a long and happy life, not to live miserably and die young, all in the name of prophecy.

“More Rhaegar, more. Does Rhaenys not deserve that?”

“Rhaenys will inherit a Realm free from darkness, as will all my children.” He shot back in frustration.

“All your children?”

“Yes, the dragon must have three heads.”

At times, talking to Rhaegar was like talking in riddles. It had never quite vexed him as much as it did now.

“What if you are wrong?” Arthur spoke loudly, not willing, at that moment, to understand the new theory.

The two stared at one another, pleading at the other to understand, disappointment radiating between them.

Yet, before an answer came, Lady Erena Manwoody interrupted.

“The Princess is awake, Your Grace, she wishes to see her daughter.”

Rhaegar handed the sleeping babe to Erena and motioned her away.

“I understand your argument Arthur, I do. Perhaps I am afraid to consider it, but I must write to Uncle Aemon and evaluate all possibilities. I more than anyone would like to be wrong, but I resigned myself long ago with the reality of a loveless unhappy life. Please, attend my wife and reassure her I will be with her promptly, I have not forgotten her.”

Arthur sighed for that was as good as he was going to get. To ask someone to reconsider everything they knew and believed about life was a substantial pose, he deemed it near miraculous that Rhaegar conceded, if only a little.

When Arthur returned to Elia, she was sat up nursing Rhaenys in her arms. There was exhaustion and shellshock in her expression as she gazed down at the child latched at her breast. 

It was somewhat comical that Ashara was sound asleep beside the mother-daughter pair, with her hand supporting Elia, despite her state of unconsciousness.

“She has not left your side, nor has she let Rhaenys out of her sight, except for when I took her to meet Rhaegar.” Arthur commented.

Elia smiled faintly before a confused expression settled across her features.

“He named her Rhaenys.” She said observing the babe closely.

“I knew you would not approve, but he has his reasons, Elia.” Arthur answered knowingly.

“It is a name riddled with misfortune. We know the fates of Rh-”

Elia sighed deeply and abandoned her former line of conversation.

“What does it matter if I approve? If my husband deems something so, then it is so,” she spoke with breathy tiredness. 

“Rhaegar wished me to tell you that he hasn’t forgotten you, and he will be with you shortly.”

Elia huffed out a humourless laugh, disbelief apparent in the look she shot him.

Arthur wished to smooth things over for Elia, so that she were not so disappointed in her husband, but there was nothing he could say.

“And I suppose he is off somewhere chasing prophecy, journeying down an endless rabbit hole attempting to make sense and reason out of the senseless and unreasonable.”

She needed no confirmation of her statement; she knew her husband well enough by now. 

“I’m sorry.” To reasons unbeknownst to himself, he apologised.

“So am I. Perhaps life would have been easier if I had married you.” She whispered.

Elia’s eyes found his before they shifted over to Ashara’s.

“Perhaps.”

Forgotten feelings flared in his chest for what he sacrificed for the love of his sister. Momentarily, he imagined a life where he was not always the man who loved from afar, and a life he had only allowed himself to dream of after his first and only kiss. Yet, it was so distant that no clear vision came to his mind.

“How are you recovering, Your Grace?” Arthur evaded, carefully reminding himself of the constructed lines of the boundaries he set with Elia, long ago.

If his swift evasion of her comment was noticed she did not reveal it. Instead, she sighed again and the earlier shellshocked expression returned to her face.

“The Grand Maester tells me it will take a long time to heal. I can’t feel my legs, my back or my feet.”

It was not promising news, yet Arthur smiled because Elia was alive, and even if not completely whole, she was still with them.

“You nearly died. It is a blessing you live, Princess.”

She shook her head in disbelief.

Much like Rhaenys, her coos turned to violent sobs, with wide eyes and shallow panicked breathing.

“Elia?”

“What if I can’t care for her? I feel so weak Art… Weak in body and spirit, what little princess deserves that?”

He knelt by the side of her cot and comforted her with a reassuring hand.

“You are the strongest person I know.”

She searched for the truth in his eyes.

“What are you talking about?”

“You.”

His mind drifted to a life that seemed so long ago, and so much simpler, despite the very real problems they had then.

“Do you remember when Ashara and I first arrived in Sunspear and we were in the gardens playing hide-and-seek, by that great palm tree and Oberyn appeared behind Asha unawares, and predictably, she wailed like a banshee?”

Elia snorted indelicately at the memory and nodded in remembrance.

“Triggered by dark reminders of Igon she yelled and screamed until you sat her down and, you kissed her cheek and…” his voice trembled.

“…you bought her back from the violent tortures of her mind and made it all better.”

It was then he had fallen for the sweet princess of Dorne. How could he not love the person that washed all his sister’s worries away, the first person to draw out the little girl who had been forever changed by Igon?

“You saved and cared for her… and cared for _me_. Over and over. All while battling your sickness _and_ ruling the Water Gardens. You showed us and so many others what it is to truly love, and I know you will do that for little Rhaenys too. You will conquer this as you have conquered all else.”

A fragile sort of silence extended between them and long beams of sunlight filtered through the curtains as Dragonstone moved closer to afternoon light.

“Arthur, thank you.” Elia said, squeezing the hand still in her own.

“It’s my job as a Dornish knight and Kingsguard.” He responded.

“You have always been so much more than that.”

“Very well, it is my job as your dear friend... even if I am not your dearest.” He said gazing over at Ashara who was now waking with a wide yawn.

Arthur could not help the chuckle which escaped when she did a double-take noticing Elia’s woken state.

“El-Elia?”

“My dearest Ashara.” Elia’s voice was soft and filled with wonder.

“Yes, sweet sister, it is as you said… _when_ she wakes.”


	39. Return To King's Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new Targaryen princess is presented and drama ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

Visitors from far and wide came in the months following the birth of Rhaenys Targaryen. Elia’s brothers Doran and Oberyn were the first, Lady Mellario came with her niece after, and even King’s Landing courtiers came; each of them watching Elia with talking eyes, waiting for her to get up onto her own feet. She desperately wanted to oblige them, but she did not have the strength and it took six long months for Elia’s body to heal enough so that she could walk. Six months of utter exhaustion to wake and insurmountable pain to move. Elia was no stranger to bouts of weakness and ill-health, but she was never so close to being invalid as after Rhaenys. Yet, with each day, and hopeful violet eyes willing her to health, she rose for her daughter, for her friend… and even for her husband.

Ashara transformed into a maternal-type figure for Elia whilst she suffered with illness. It was a strange dynamic that the once frightened young girl, who needed more care than anybody, took up the role of carer so easily. Elia was forever indebted to her for all she had done, and continued to do. And if her heart ached with something she could not understand when Ashara made her feel so cherished and adored, she focussed that energy on rising once more.

Surprisingly, Rhaegar also kept her company, he came to her bed some days, when she was too sick to move, and his pale fingers danced over his silver harp as Ashara taught Rhaenys to dance to his livelier melodies.

Rhaenys was the salve that prevented them from tearing each other’s throats out, and each of them were aware; Elia, Rhaegar, Ashara and Arthur.

Rhaenys arrival changed _almost_ everything. She was an energetic bundle of fire that reminded them of love and joy and bond. She reminded Elia of the hopes and dreams of her young self. Elia would not allow her into the world of viciousness. Rhaenys was soft, and warm, like the sun. She was fierce, and clever, like a dragon. She deserved the best of everything.

Owing to this, and despite the difficulty in her marriage, Elia willed herself to love her husband as she had vowed; to try for him for the sake of their daughter. So, she smiled for him, sat up for him, even when the pain stabbed sharply at her stomach, and did not allow herself to slump back into her bed until his footsteps faded away.

In turn, he seemed to try for her; he did not drag her out of her bed and make her stand in court; nor did he reprimand Ashara when her eyes were a little less than kind – especially, when conversations of returning to King’s Landing were bought up – nor did he bring up prophecy, even when he came begging Elia for a son.

However, Elia could not always hold onto positivity. At times, when she stared at her husband, despite his politeness, she could not dispel the notion that _still_ he did not love her. His love for his daughter was unquestionable, but his love for her was debatable. She wondered if his attentiveness was in servitude for what she could provide for him and not because he loved her. Thus, Elia was only useful for as long as she could provide, and if she could not, how easily could she be replaced?

Furthermore, the stories of Elia’s health since her confinement had turned to aggrandized wives’ tales. Tongues wagged about a monstrous deformed babe and loud murmurs began of a crippled future Queen. With every day she spent attempting to rise in strength, the more precarious her position became. She had thought news of a new Targaryen child would bring joy, yet it only bought more strain to her position.

In her bones, Elia felt a storm forming.

Therefore, for fear of the continued gossip that her weakness would breed in Westeros, and despite Ashara’s many protests, she gathered the strength to journey to King’s Landing to present her daughter to the King and Queen and court. And if she still bled between her legs, and if her bones yearned to collapse with every movement, she ignored it, for she was unbowed, unbent and unbroken. She was to be the Queen one day. The realm had to believe her to be indomitable, even when she was not.

When they approached the King’s city, the smallfolk, ever as fickle as the changing winds, greeted them as if long lost brethren, cheering after their procession in the streets. However, when they arrived inside the walls of the Red Keep the atmosphere of Aerys court was strikingly invidious. Tensions in court had grown since their departure, and seemingly not just between Aerys courtiers and Rhaegar’s. Despite the feigned niceties, every person seemed to be on razor edge.

Their arrival coinciding with Prince Viserys fourth nameday only added greater tension to the air. It seemed their presence, despite endless letters demanding it, was not wanted.

“Joy to you, King Aerys, Queen Rhaella, Prince Viserys.” Elia announced in the throne room of the Red Keep.

Elia stood at Rhaegar’s side as he greeted his family. 

Viserys smiled brightly, sat atop his mother’s lap, not quite aware of the strange tension in the room.

Aerys appeared more unhinged than previous, as he eyed her and Rhaenys suspiciously with the crazed look which resided permanently in his eyes.

“May I present, my daughter, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, your granddaughter.”

Rhaegar stepped forward to pass over Rhaenys to Aerys, but the King refused to hold her, only peered at her peevishly before making a comment that made Elia’s blood boil.

“She smells Dornish.”

Elia looked to Rhaegar, whose jaw clenched in growing annoyance.

“She is your granddaughter.” Rhaegar retorted.

“And I told you to bring me an heir.” Aerys turned away dismissively, signalling the musicians to continue with the merriment.

Inside Elia, the forgotten feelings of just how unwanted she was in King’s Landing, made her realise that the court at Dragonstone was a paradise in comparison.

As the carousing continued, Queen Rhaella made effort to receive them properly. Rhaella sported a bruise on her neck when she cupped Elia’s cheek in greeting. Elia did not say anything, but she could see the dark marks were in the shape of fingers. Nonetheless, Rhaella still managed to look as regal as the best of Queens, despite the untold horrors which she surely endured. Her back was straight, her head held high, and her silver hair braided in the new Crownlands fashion.

“I would hold my granddaughter, hand her to me.” Rhaella spoke, removing little Viserys from her lap.

Elia stepped forward, concentrating every muscle on passing her heavy child into Rhaella’s waiting arms, and not wobbling up the steps as her body screamed at her in pain – lest the King’s Landing courtiers find any other fault with her.

“Welcome home, dear daughter.” Rhaella said to Elia before her eyes fell to the child curiously observing her. 

Rhaella held Rhaenys to her, giving her a gentle caress.

“ _Rystas_ , my sweet. I am your Grandmama.” She greeted in Valyrian.

The way Rhaella examined the child with yearning eyes, Elia knew exactly what she felt. In the way she stroked Rhaenys and gazed into indigo eyes, it was evident she wanted to see traces of the daughter she never had. Even despite Rhaenys bronze skin, dark hair and mother’s features; Rhaella gave a watery smile.

Rhaenys gazed back at her a moment, with the same thoughtful look Elia often saw in her husband’s eyes, before her chubby fingers clutched for Rhaella’s jewels.

“Ga-ga!” Rhaenys garbled to Rhaella’s delight.

“I hoped she would be most pleasing to you mother.” Rhaegar commented, gazing lovingly at the pair.

“Yes, she is all that and more. Welcome home, son,” she whispered with a tight throat.

Rhaegar greeted her warmly, with the first genuine smile Elia had seen on his face since they decided to return to King’s Landing. Although, that smile turned dark when he too noticed the bruises around her neck.

“My Prince!” A gaggle of lordlings came seeking his attention.

“Go to them.” Rhaella instructed before he could voice his concerns of her wellbeing.

“Go.” She said more firmly, when it appeared, he would not.

Rhaegar relinquished and left the women to perform as a charismatic prince, immediately chased by Viserys.

“Viserys, wait.” Rhaella called.

“No, I do not wish to look at boring babes. I am a prince!”

For all that he resembled Rhaegar and Rhaella, Viserys had none of their dispositions. The constant attention he received from the Kingsguard, his family, and the servants; the product of being the only surviving child after a litany of miscarriages; had made him spoiled, fanciful, and mischievous.

“Let the boy go, it is his nameday.” The King commanded before Rhaella could say otherwise.

Viserys loved his father; he was too young to know of Aerys’ cruelty, and the King was never unkind towards his second-and increasingly favourite-son. Of course, he loved Rhaella, as well, but, perhaps even more than her, he loved Rhaegar. In Viserys’ eyes, his elder brother could do no wrong and was perfection embodied into a human being. Thus, the little prince waddled off after his brother, copying his step, and replicating his expressions; and pulling at short hair to resemble Rhaegar’s.

Instead, Rhaella turned her attention to the child on her lap.

“Rhaenys Targaryen, _zaldrīzo ānogar.”_ Rhaella whispered with an excitement Elia had never seen in her before. 

“ _Zaldrīzo ānogar,_ blood of the dragon.” Elia translated easily.

“Ah you speak Valyrian well. I suppose your mother taught you.”

Elia nodded, unable to speak for the pang in her chest at the reminder of the loss of her mother.

Rhaella regarded her as a servant girl poured some wine for both women and laid a plate of cheese and honeyfingers on the small table between them. She studied Elia intently, gazing deeply into her eyes, then up and down her thin frame.

“You’ve travelled far, Elia. How are you truly, my daughter?”

Her heart gave a little twinge.

Elia wrung her hands together where they rested against the point of her tightly laced, gem-encrusted bodice and hoped Rhaella had not seen, because for her to talk about how lonely she felt in her marriage would only make it that much worse, and she was afraid to show that she cared because she knew as a princess she had to be brave and strong. Still, her eyes prickled.

“Exhausted, lady mother. My journey, in my mind, and in my body has been long.” She admitted.

The Queen gazed at her with a Rhaegar-like solemn expression. 

“I wish I could tell you it will become easier, less tiring, but I won’t lie to you, as your mother never lied to me. It doesn’t become easier, but you will learn to manage it all.”

Again, she nodded fearing words would bring tears.

“And my son, does he treat you well?”

In comparison to his father, Rhaegar was a heavens-sent man, yet their relationship was not without its complexities.

“He is wonderful to Rhaenys and he tries his hardest to be most dutiful to me, whilst balancing his dreams of the future, Your Grace.” She said cryptically.

“He has been that way since he was a child. He has much to learn but be patient with him and guide him and focus all your love for your children.” She instructed, understanding the unspoken truths.

Rhaenys, still bouncing on her lap, took the moment to pick up a sticky honeyfinger, bringing a smile to both women.

“Ahh, she has a sweet-tooth, just like her father.”

Rhaella broke the thick treat to manageable portions to feed Rhaenys.

“I hope it does not ruin her appetite. She is very picky with her food. It takes much coaxing to finish her meals. And she is most stubborn.”

“Of course, she is. She is burns with dragon-fire and sun-fire.” Rhaella responded as she watched the child open her mouth and stuffed the pastry into it.

Eventually, their easy conversation was interrupted by a drunken Lord Qarlton Chelsted.

“A toast!” Lord Qarlton announced.

“I drink to the continuation of the Targaryen reign, to King Aerys and the prosperous Seven kingdoms!”

Aerys smirked menacingly from the Iron Throne, as his most favoured crony blathered on, purposefully seeking to ignite the flames of the tensions in the room.

“…And last, I drink to Viserys, a _true_ prince, we can be proud of…”

He turned to Rhaegar then with his goblet in the air.

“…Perhaps he ought to be the heir, he might present us with legitimate sons!”

Elia felt the throw before she saw it and she heard herself call out before she realised.

“Don’t!” She reprimanded too late.

Rhaegar had lost his temper and thrown his own goblet straight at Lord Qarlton.

“What am I, you son of a dog?”

Hands were on swords and chests were puffed up before anyone had the chance to deescalate the commotion. Arthur and Jon Connington threw themselves in front of Rhaegar, standing with their prince for all to see. The others of the Kingsguard were a little more careful in their positioning; Ser Jonothor and Ser Oswell, in between the King and Rhaegar; Ser Barristan and Ser Gerold by the King’s side; and Prince Lewyn at Elia’s own.

Drunken lords, swords and a mad Mad King were more dangerous than caches of wildfire.

“Come, then.” Qarlton taunted.

“Enough, all of you!” Aerys commanded. 

“This is my son’s nameday, not some public brawl.”

His eyes turned to Rhaegar next.

“Insolent spawn. Apologise, by the Seven, before you dishonour me.”

Rhaegar’s rage only grew at Aerys words, and Elia felt him inch closer to something he could not return from.

“You defend the man who called _your_ granddaughter a bastard and my wife a whore?” He asked incredulously.

“And I dishonour you?”

“Rhaegar.” Elia whispered attempting to move to his side, although Rhaella kept a firm hold on her wrist, trapping her from moving. 

“You even listen like the Dornish now.” Qarlton responded.

“What do you mean by that?” He asked defiantly.

“I mean perhaps your fire is more of the sun than that of a dragon. Coming here to present your daughter on the Prince’s nameday, have you no shame.”

Rhaegar stalked up to the fat master of coin.

“ _You_ are not even fit to lick the ground the princess walks on.” He spat through gritted teeth.

Elia’s heart raced, though if it was because Rhaegar stood firmly on her side, or the fear from the consequences of this interaction, she was not sure.

“You insult me?”

“I insult you! You dog, insulting your future Queen!” Rhaegar added.

Aerys interrupted then, slamming his fist against his throne.

“She is not Queen yet, you ingrate. You covet this throne too much, we all know your Dornish allies want me dead. Well, you can all dream, boy!”

Rhaegar’s eyes held a rage, a rage strong enough to burn everything down and Elia wondered for the first time, what inferno her husband kept inside his sensitive heart. Before Rhaegar blasted like the dragon he was and jeopardized everything for them, Elia spoke.

“Rhaegar, my love, let it go, soon enough we will have a son, will we not?” She said in the voice of a princess and with the grace of a sun but Rhaegar still looked mortified.

“Why, maddened man, must you think everything I do and say is some plot against you?”

The air around them turned icy at Rhaegar’s words. He was the only person to call him what all whispered behind his back.

“Because I know your heart, and by the Gods, I see it in your eyes...”

“Aerys, this is the wine talking.” Rhaella said attempting to calm her own husband down.

“Now, I command you. Apologise to your brother and the court.”

Rhaegar stared him down with disgust in his expression.

“Apologise.”

Rhaegar defied his father and turned his back to him.

“Good night, old man.”

Elia felt her husband grab her wrist and snatch Rhaenys from his mother.

“You treasonous bastard! You _will_ obey me. Come here!” He screeched desperately.

Yelling obscenities, Aerys clambered from the Iron Throne and fell at the final step.

“ _This_ is the man fit to rule your Kingdoms?”

Rhaegar looked around at Aerys cronies, making sure to meet them each in the eye.

“…He cannot even make it from his throne to his feet.”

Elia was dragged by Rhaegar through the crowd as Aerys yelled after them.

“Get out of my palace! Return and hide to that cold rock, you bastard! You are not welcome here... You are _no_ son of mine!”

Had it not been for his heavily intoxicated state the King would have surely burned Rhaegar and Elia and their entire party alive.

“You leave tonight. Ashara was right, we should not have come.” He admitted, once they were alone.

For all that Ashara loved to be correct, even she appeared shaken at the events of the evening as she tried to soothe a screaming Rhaenys.

“And what of you?” Elia wondered.

“My mother will insist I make things right with my father.”

Although she wished to argue, the thought of stay in King’s Landing another moment longer kept her mouth clamped shut. Thus, she and Ashara were ushered into a charabanc within the hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for the comments and keeping up with the story!


	40. The Love Of Man And Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia gives and Rhaegar takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Dubious Consent 
> 
> Elia

Elia’s life with Rhaegar had been… challenging. He was both hot and cold, distant and close—exchanged moments of great intimacy for days and weeks with no touch. She sometimes wondered whether it was worth it, coming here to Dragonstone. But the Seven showed him to her in vision, and she always trusted their prophecies, and she would never change it for he had gifted her with beautiful wonderful Rhaenys.

Elia knew not to complain because Rhaegar treated her well enough; kept her in comfort; never begrudged her simple wants and desires; and was good to their daughter. Furthermore, he never imposed upon or questioned her relationship with Ashara, which had become something even she could not quite explain anymore. It was a relationship which encompassed so many roles that were it not for Rhaegar, and Ashara’s blatant lack of association; it would be difficult to decipher where she began and Ashara ended.

Rhaegar was dutiful enough, she supposed, and it was enough, it had to be.

However, with every passing day, she was pulled her further into the drowning loneliness of their marriage. It was a strange loneliness considering she was never alone, never truly so depressed with Rhaenys and Ashara at her side. Yet, she was incredibly aware that her relationship, supposedly the most important one that a Westerosi woman should have, was failing. She was confronted with the sinking reality that her husband did not love her, nor would he ever, despite Azor Ahai and Nissa Nissa prophecies promises. And although the question of Rhaegar’s feelings toward her was commonly at the tip of her tongue, she never dared ask, choosing to take his sporadic affections toward her as denial of her worries.

Since Rhaegar’s confrontation with his father, what should have bought them closer together, pushed them further apart. The truce that came as a result of Rhaenys birth dissolved away faster than it arrived.

The Mad King was anything but forgiving and his heir had pushed the limits. Elia knew it shook Rhaegar, she saw it every time he kissed her gently, every time he looked at her. Rhaegar had never been wholly present, and it stood to reason his mind was occupied with any number of things; with all manner of forces around him asking him to act. His father, his wife, his prophecies, his subjects. 

Thus, a mere week after Rhaenys presentation, one evening, when he came to her chambers with purpose in his piercing indigo eyes, she was not surprised.

“I think it is time for another child.” His tone posed it as a question, yet his statement was unmistakeable.

She had expected Rhaegar to come calling soon, especially since Rhaenys reception, but she did not realise he would come quite so promptly. Despite how much she and Rhaegar loved their daughter, they both knew the discontent at court and across the Kingdoms would not cease until a son was born, a _true_ heir. The Targaryen dynasty and Rhaegar’s ascension to the Iron Throne depended upon it. However, Elia’s body screamed at her every day that she was barely ready to walk as she did, let alone bare another child.

“As you know, I, more than anyone, would love another ferocious little dragon screaming the walls of this castle down…” Elia began.

Rhaegar affectionately skimmed her cheek, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled gently at her words. It was a rare smile not tinged with melancholy, or shortened by resentment, but with softly curved lips and shining eyes in true fondness. For reasons unbeknownst to herself, despite all she knew and feared, Elia still prayed to the Gods there would come a day where he would lovingly smile in such a way for her forever.

It was a queer want for someone who had been so unhappy in her marriage. Still, she yearned for him. It was something that grew suddenly and caught her off guard, and she wondered if it was Rhaenys presence, or fear of failure, or delusional pretence that made her feel such a way.

Therefore, she entertained a conversation she should have swiftly shut down. She knew she was not ready for another child; not in body, in mind, nor in spirit.

When her voice failed to sound in direct protest, she hoped he might read it between words, or in her eyes, or even in the feel of her _damned_ frail body.

“…Yet, I wonder if it is too soon?”

The disappointment in his expression and the dejected sigh he released affected her in a way she did not expect. Suddenly, she felt as if he was water spilling through her hands and everything inside her screamed to retain his attention a little longer. 

“Should we not wait until Rhaenys is a little older?” She bargained.

While Elia did not want to be a broodmare; only loved for her body and what it could produce, she realised it was all she could do until her husband sat upon the throne and she could consolidate some power and purpose beyond producing children.

“You and your brother are only a year apart, and you tell me often of the joys of being so close in age.” He countered.

She smiled tightly at him, unable to understand why she so feared telling him no. She did not feel at all the fearless Martell woman she was raised to be. Ever since coming so close to death in childbirth, and her arduous recovery, she feared if perhaps something inside her had been irreparably _broken_ by it.

If Rhaegar noticed her grin was near feigned in its genuineness, he did not show it as his hand snaked mollifying caresses from her cheek to her waist.

When he saw she was unconvinced by the pleading touch, his words came in a strange tone.

“I suppose it’s fine to neglect your duty if your body is not yet well enough.”

The comment triggered an insecurity which had only grown since their wedding. The sickly Dornish princess not fit for the perfect Targaryen prince. Away from Dorne, surrounded by women that looked nothing like her, apart from her few ladies-in-waiting, and dealing with the consequences of her body’s changes after pregnancy, left her feeling severely inadequate. The pride in her would never allow her to voice such thoughts, however.

“My body is healed…” She rushed defensively.

It was not quite a lie, externally her wounds and scars were healed.

“…only-”

“Don’t you want a child? Wasn’t it you that told me of your sibylline dreams of our son?” Rhaegar interrupted.

His insistence ignited her temper, and when roused, her anger raged like the hottest, deepest core of the sun on the warmest day of a Dornish summer.

“Of course I _fucking_ do! But I want a child for the right reasons. They are children, small people, not means of power, or fulfilment of duty, nor prophecy. A child deserves-”

 _A father who loves their mother._ She bit her tongue to stop the words tumbling out.

He frowned in that solemn way that made her want to comfort him. But she stilled her hand in attempt to reclaim any power in their exchange.

“And what are the right reasons? A child – a son, will fix all of our problems. Are you saying you would not love him because he was born for duty or prophecy?”

She narrowed her eyes at him and backed out of his grasp.

“Elia…” He murmured regretfully.

She would love all her children, no matter why they were born, and he knew that.

“There will never be any question regarding my love for children. However, I wonder if _you_ would love them, do you wish for the treatment you received from your father for your son… after all, you were a child of duty and prophecy.”

Rhaegar sighed and his eyes flashed darkly at her.

“I love Rhaenys, do I not?”

His indigo eyes bore into her until she felt remorse wash over her for the comparison to Aerys. She knew it was a sore point for him and hated that she had thrown it at him so callously. He doted on his daughter, gave her everything she asked for, including that terribly annoying cat of hers, and was nothing of the father Aerys was to him.

“Yes, you do.” She confirmed, finding herself slipping back into his arms, Elia now the one regretfully negotiating.

When she brushed her lips to his chapped ones in apology, she cursed herself for falling into his chasmic orbs and strong arms so easily.

The peck that began chaste was followed by a procession of heady kisses which left Elia’s thoughts of reason running away from her.

She could not discern how Rhaegar’s near neglect of her left her yearning for him more, left her chasing him desperately, beyond all sense. If he did not love her, she was certain she loved him, and she hated herself for it.

“Rhaegar...” Elia gasped.

Her lips trembled with the question she could never say.

_‘Do you love me?’_

It burned in her throat and caught between the spaces of her ribs. If she had the strength, she would have let the words pierce the air, but she did not think she could fall on his words, desperate as she was, and survive. If she found the truth from him, it would be the beginning or the end of everything. She was comfortable in the strange lonely limbo she existed in.

“Husband…” Elia addressed again.

Her hand closed around his wrist and she looked into his indigo eyes which swirled with determination and vigour. They danced in the sunlight, but in the shadows of the night, they reminded her of ashes and smoke blowing in the wind coming from a fire that burned everything to the ground. They were intense, coming from a fire that raged deep within his soul.

She felt naked before him, not in body but in soul, and it frightened her that there was nothing she could do to keep her heart hidden from him.

He understood she loved him, and he took it and offered her confusing games in return.

“Wife,” he answered playfully, with a rare charming smirk pulling at his cheek.

When her words failed her, he kissed her, softly, letting his lips brush against her own before moving them to her cheek, to her brow, to her eyelids and nose. He kissed her like she was something precious; more than flesh and bone, more than the woman who warmed his bed. Yet, he was hidden as always; and there was nothing that could be done.

Her skin, so love starved, savoured his affections despite the tenable reservations inside her. It was disorientating that her body betrayed her mind so easily.

It was difficult to stitch flesh over an opened, vulnerable heart. Even more difficult when desire was not there. She was too exhausted to pretend she could not trace the shape of his face in her dreams; too exhausted to pretend she could not taste the sweetness of his mouth over selfishness and manipulation.

“Please, I’ll be as tender as I know how.” Rhaegar begged in a whisper between kisses.

She felt entirely trapped, by him and by _herself_. There really was no choice. Therefore, as he kissed each part of her flesh, she satisfied herself with his weak reasonings and more of her own.

 _Lips:_ motherhood was her dream.

 _Neck:_ the Gods had led her to Rhaegar for this purpose.

 _Breast:_ it was her duty.

 _Heart:_ it would bring her Rhaegar’s love and the love of her kingdoms.

 _Thigh:_ there was no other choice.

Her stomach twisted with Rhaegar’s every stroke and caress, and in the heat of the moment, she held onto the notion that he might love her. She felt his callused hands pull her close and he moved in tandem to some melody in his head. She heard the intoxicating sound of his loud moans and he hushed beautiful lies in her ear; and in her chest, a tiny bubble of happiness blossomed when he pulled back long enough to gaze at her. It was so close to love Elia convinced herself it was. This was what she had craved for a _lifetime_. So, when he leant down to murmur ‘I love you’, lips barely touching, silent tears cascaded from her eyes, and for the first time in so very long – _a year, five months and seven days –_ she experienced Rhaegar’s love – _burning, like the hottest dragon-fire._

And if she heard her own lies from long ago – ‘ _And the Prince, if he turns out mad, I will not lay idly beneath him if he tries to rape or beat me. I am of Dorne, after all. And the sun can burn more than any dragon’s flame_ ,’ – she drowned them out with her own sonorous moans.

And when she went rigid, excruciating pain rippling through her, she fisted the sheets to stop herself from pushing him away because Elia did not want to lose her husband. If it pleased him, made her a good wife and made him stay; she would do what she must.

As he climaxed, she wondered if this was what her mother meant when she spoke of sacrifice for love.


	41. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara tends to Elia in her toughest time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: miscarriage aftermath.
> 
> Ashara.

“My prayers were not answered.”

It was a confession Ashara needed no explanation for. Elia spent day and night upon bended knee pleading to the Seven for good health and a child in her belly.

Despite Ashara’s own feelings – livid that Elia became pregnant so soon after nearly losing her life birthing Rhaenys – when Elia worried something was wrong in her body, Ashara had knelt beside her praying to Gods she held no true love for. 

“The pregnancy.” Ashara stated.

Elia nodded as she revealed the bloody bed sheets beneath her.

Ashara’s head spun. Elia was pregnant and now no longer. It was a level of pain she could only begin to imagine, and she ached for the loss.

Things in the dreary Dragonstone castle were tense following their return from Rhaenys presentation in King’s Landing. The pressure for a son to be born loomed over them all, but none more than Elia. 

“I’ve lost my child.” Elia spoke staring hauntedly at the blood between her legs.

Ashara was at a loss for words and sat stupidly watching her. She wanted to pull Elia into her arms and kiss her gently, she wanted to do a thousand things, but in the end, in that moment, all she could think to do was reach up and tuck a stray hair behind her ear. Her fingers brushed against soft skin, feather light, and she saw the moment Elia felt the touch. When her eyes fluttered and she leant into her, Ashara snaked her arms around a bony frame and pulled her into an embrace; for there were no words for what a terrible moment it was.

In her arms Elia felt delicate. Despite Elia’s maladies, _delicate_ was not a word she ever attributed to her. Duteous, amenable, resilient, sure – never _delicate._ Ashara could not explain why that surfaced now, considering all she had witnessed Elia struggle through, but it stuck in her mind and it scared her shitless.

Tremors came as the tell-tale signs that Elia was attempting not to cry. When she pulled back, she released a choked half-sob which caught in her throat before a roar of a wail erupted. Elia sobbed into her chest unceasingly and Ashara hugged her again, tighter, fiercer. Elia’s palpable pain combined with her own rolling emotions brought tear-blurred vision as she rocked her slowly.

A tiny lapse let her pull away, blinking lashes heavy with tears, before Elia collapsed again, her howls of misery worsening. The pain came in waves, minutes of sobbing broken apart by staccato pauses for recovering breaths, before hurling back into the outstretched arms of grief.

“I’m sorry, my sweet…” Ashara breathed, not trusting her voice above a whisper.

“I am so sorry.”

Eventually, Elia pressed her lips together, nodded and closed her eyes; fighting back another wave of tears.

“Lady Amai said to expect it, that it wouldn’t be safe even for a healthy woman, let alone a sickly one. But, Rhae-”

She sighed deeply, correcting whatever statement was going to come out.

“… _I_ was so certain… so _hopeful._ I thought-”

She met Ashara’s gaze then, and her heartbreak was so much clearer.

“You thought she would be wrong.” Ashara finished.

Again, Elia nodded before her eyes fell back to the blood between her legs.

“I needed him.” Elia confessed placing her hand in the crimson, as if touching it would return the babe to her.

The warm light usually in dark brown orbs appeared entirely snuffed out; and Ashara witnessed just how _broken_ the unbreakable was. Darkness clutched at her because she feared Elia would never truly recover from this loss. Terrified by that prospect, Ashara moved into action, attempting to heal her in ways taught to her by Elia herself.

“Come, Princess, let me get you cleaned up and we can call the Maester.”

“No, I don’t – No maester.” Elia rushed.

No one knew of the pregnancy outside of Ashara and Wylla. Elia was awaiting her husband’s return from Summerhall to announce the news. Now, there would be nothing to celebrate.

“Very well, but please allow me to bathe you?” She offered, afraid that Elia might collapse if she did not rise from the bed soon.

“I, I don’t know. I-” She drew a sharp breath.

“Yes.”

Wylla was called to draw them water. While they waited, she held Elia and kept her own emotions at bay.

“Hush, we will get through this,” she promised.

Ashara wanted to explode in grief and despair but she swallowed the hurricane that threatened to destroy and ignored the sick feeling in her stomach that came with Elia being in so much pain. She had to be strong for her. 

Eventually, Wylla appeared with hot water for bathing and cleaning, and scurried out without question on her lips.

“Come.” Ashara coaxed.

As Elia had done for her so long ago, she led her to the tub; and when Elia sat in the water, Ashara released a soft exhale. The water was a good thing, over time it had become their sacred space of healing.

However, Elia seemed to barely notice where she was, staring vacantly into nowhere at all; and Ashara was at a loss at what to do.

Silence permeated between them and instead of awkwardly gawping at her, Ashara busied herself with disposing the soiled sheets and nightgown.

Ashara carried over a low-standing stool beside the tub, took a washcloth, and as gentle as possible, ran it over her paled bronze skin. She ran it between her fingers, up her back, across her stomach and between her legs. It was a revitalising ritual that Ashara hoped with every movement, for it lave away the sorrow.

When all was done, Ashara reached carefully for Elia’s hands and intertwined them. Again, Elia seemed not to notice and in dark eyes she saw a shift from dull emptiness to terrifying vulnerability.

After a while, Elia found her voice, and it broke Ashara’s heart.

“My son…Rhaegar – I’m sorry,” Elia breathed through new sobs.

Her apology created a greater ache within Ashara because her sweet Elia felt at fault.

Ashara traced her finger along her jaw, tucked it under her chin and persuaded her to look up.

“Don’t you dare apologise, not for this, not for something you couldn’t control.”

Although it was the Gods work, Ashara could not help but place blame on Rhaegar. Anyone with a pair of eyes and functioning thought between the ears could tell Elia was no less ready for a child, than she was the loss of one.

Ashara grew to truly dislike him after the events of Rhaenys birth; he proved himself selfish, spoilt and near indifferent to Elia’s feelings. Even if he redeemed himself a little with his confrontation with the Mad King by standing up for his family, Ashara would not sing his praises. Especially when, even now, he was absent, off brooding at the cursed Summerhall ruins.

She shared her thoughts with no one, considering her brother believed him a troubled apotheosis and Elia still loved him. Rhaegar’s darkness, the thing she had worried for since the moment she stared into his bedevilled eyes, was consuming them all. Looking at Elia now, she despised the solemn prince.

Elia bit her lip, fighting back tears. Ashara felt her stomach catch at the sight. In comfort, she kissed her forehead before resting her own against it.

“Elia, all will be well.”

The disjointed pattern of Elia’s breathing disintegrated further as she tucked her head against Ashara’s shoulder. Her shoulder became wet with bath water and tears, and Ashara could not find it within herself to care; all she wished was a remedy to Elia’s pain.

“I’m afraid I will lose him if he hears I have lost a babe.” Elia revealed in a whisper so quiet Ashara struggled to hear. Yet, she did hear, and it enraged her further.

The stupid, solemn prince never deserved the sweet, gentle-hearted princess. 

“Don’t you waste a single moment worrying about him...”

She debated whether to complete her sentence, but when Elia did not immediately come to his defence as usual, she continued.

“…He is a fool.” She finished.

To Ashara’s surprise, Elia’s cheeks twitched in the effort of a smile.

“He _is_ a fool.” She agreed, and for the first time, it sounded as if she meant it.

Ashara was hopeful a moment before Elia ducked her head again, and this time, tears fell thick and fast.

“What can I do, how can I make this hurt any less?” Ashara begged.

Immediately she regretted the question for the trembling of Elia’s lower lip and how her barely controlled breathing shattered into wracking sobs.

“Nothing,” she croaked.

She looked unsteady in the water, as if she might just drown and so, Ashara pulled her out of the lukewarm water. She dressed and lead her to the bed, but when she saw panic in her eyes, she redirected them to her adjoined chambers. In her bed, they wrapped together in furs, like they were girls in Sunspear; Ashara’s arms around her, holding her close, holding her together. 

Again, she pressed a kiss to the skin of her temple whilst curling a hand into her hair and letting the other run up and down her back in measured arcs.

There was something especially terrible about seeing Elia like that. It reminded Ashara of the night Princess Furiosa died. However, as gut wrenching as that night sat in her memories, this was worse. Of all the times Elia cried with Ashara, in front of her, none of them combined compared to this. These tears were from a deep and terrible pain that seemed to be threatening to consume Elia whole.

Ashara held her, an anchor in a storm she could not understand but was willing to draw her out from.

It was a different type of horror to witness Elia, her friend, her family, her love, this distraught.

Seconds bled into minutes and minutes may well have bled into hours but Ashara was not paying attention. She was focused on Elia, on the way she seemed to be calming.

Her calls softened into heart-rending whimpers, and when she spoke – _whispered –_ again, Ashara did not miss her words.

“We cannot tell Rhaegar. He must never know.”

The dread in Elia’s voice fuelled a burning rage inside Ashara. She indulged in visions of beating sense into Rhaegar, although she did not think it would make much difference. He was wont to do as he pleased, the consequences be damned. Even wilful Oberyn had more care than the beloved Silver Prince.

“If we don’t tell him, he will continue to-” She struggled to get the words out for the nauseating image they conjured.

“… _try_ for a son when he returns.”

“If I don’t give him his son soon, either the King or Rhaegar himself will cast me aside, and shame me for the realm to see. Sickly, barren, Dornish wench.”

Ashara wanted to argue and curse and scream that Elia did not need Rhaegar or these damned kingdoms. Nothing, not even a Queenship, was worth this pain and unhappiness. Even if Westeros and its rulers did not want her, Ashara did, and she would never ask her for anything more than her joy and laughter. She yearned to whisk her away from the clutches of dragon claws.

“Elia-” Ashara opened and closed her mouth uselessly.

“They will take my daughter from me and cast me aside, whether by way of exile, or death.”

All Ashara’s arguments died in her throat recalling how close to death Elia had already come, and the thought of the separation between Elia and Rhaenys.

She sighed defeatedly.

“But, your body must recover or this will happen _again_.” She countered, with the only thing she knew might make her treat herself with caution. For whilst her will was unbowed, unbent, unbroken; her body could easily be bowed, bent and broken. 

She looked up at her then, horrified by the prospect of enduring such pain once more.

“I will bide my time until the worst of the damage is healed. _Please_ Asha, he mustn’t know, promise me.” She begged.

She bit her lip with supressed rage and responded despite herself.

“Fine. He won’t know.”

Silence lingered in the air, thick and heavy, like a blanket.

“You’re too kind to me.” Elia added gently, easing the tenseness between them.

“No,” She answered just as gently. “I’m not. This is what you deserve, a space and person where you can process and grieve and allow yourself feel all the things you need to feel.”

“You sound so wise,” she commented, turning to study her face in the dark.

“A lesson hard learned. I nearly lost you and it changed something in me. So many times, you have been my anchor and you need the same. So, whether it is wiping away tears, washing away blood, or keeping your secrets – even when I don’t agree – I’ll do whatever it takes to cherish you.”

In the dark, she could just about make out Elia’s eyes and they stared at her so intently her heart hammered.

It was as if she was deconstructing and constructing something entirely profound from Ashara’s words, but the young confidant did not believe she said anything Elia did not already know.

Ashara waited for whatever seemed to be at the tip of her tongue. Yet, nothing came. Instead, Elia’s lids begin to droop in exhaustion and just when Ashara believed her to be asleep, she interrupted the quiet.

“I wish I could love you.”

It was mumbled in the space between wakeness and unconsciousness. It was everything Ashara ever wished to hear and she had no idea what to do with it.

“I _do_ love you, Elia,” Ashara whispered to the sleeping princess, a confession she had been desperate to reveal since Rhaenys birth.

The confession was nowhere near as terrifying as she convinced herself into believing for far too many years.

“I love you; I always have.” She admitted, firmer.


	42. Love and War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia and Rhaegar play at games of love and war.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

Despite the pain in Elia’s body, and the irreparable damage in her soul, after the loss of a child in her womb, she forced herself to health. Since the tempestuous reception of Rhaenys by the King, the realm’s disappointment at a Targaryen princess with the sun in her skin made Elia’s position more precarious by the day.

Even at Dragonstone, what was once welcome respite from King’s Landing, became just as suffocating as the walls of the Red Keep. At court, the whispers were loud and many by the northern lords.

_‘Frail woman.’_

_‘Dornish wench not fit for a king.’_

_‘If she can even carry another, it will be as sickly and weak as her.’_

_‘No woman at all.’_

Amongst the remainder of Elia’s Dornishmen there were murmured worries of her health and the question of a Queen Elia grew. 

Thus, sheer will, and gripping fear motivated Elia to rise and not succumb to the pain in her bones and the ache in her heart.

However, as she began to recover physically, her husband worsened. The absence of a pregnancy placed insurmountable pressure on Rhaegar and extended the distance between them to new depths.

Elia bid her time with an Ashara-sized barrier in her bed every night he called to her chambers. Although he obliged her, his resentment seeped into their every interaction. At court he casually overruled her judgements, even over the simplest of matters. At mealtimes, there was an absence of Dornish cuisine, and the musicians no longer played the jovial songs of home and hope, rather warning tunes of revenge and sorrow. Elia might have dismissed the subtle changes as coincidence, were it not for the morning she found her daughter stolen from the crib. Gone with her father to visit kin, the servants had dismissed her, days after he again postponed a trip to Dorne _._

His passive-aggressiveness threw oil onto a blazing inferno which ignited in Elia the moment she woke with blood pooled between her legs where her son had meant to be. The rage left her terrified and trembling.

Her worries were once whether her husband loved her, and now she contemplated if her husband _hated_ her. 

Thus, when she joined her husband in Kings Landing, for the Father’s holyday celebrations in King’s Landing, in the dead of night, she snuck into the royal sept. Elia beseeched the Gods to make her life whole. She begged the Seven to make her blind, or deaf, or _anything_ , but to please, _please_ give her a son. Before it was too late.

Her prayers grew from pleads to fury, and she cursed the Gods for her fate; for a husband who did not love her, for a body that failed her, for a true love she could never have. The Seven had led her there and she could not help but wonder why.

Why had the gods chosen her for the task that was wife to a future King? What was her role in his damned prophesies?

Eventually, her thoughts drifted to what she had given up getting there – _who_ she gave up in pursuit – and whether any of it was worth it.

Had it been worth it to gaze away from the stars to be blinded by fire-breathing beasts?

After hours alone, gazing up at the eerie statue of the Father’s alter, Rhaegar joined her in the presence of the Gods. It appeared he was of the same mind to lay out his grievances that strange night.

They sat in quiet, barely acknowledging one another after an aloof greeting. When Elia returned to her prayers, she found that her husband’s frustrations were the same. Where her curses had been vociferous and wrathful, Rhaegar’s blasphemy was hushed; and his quietened violence glissaded down the walls of the large empty sept.

“You are truly the Father. What evil God gives with one hand and taunts with the other?”

“Why do you propel me towards a damned destiny, and yet keep my son from me in the same instant?”

If Elia had ever questioned the existence of his dragon nature, in that moment all queries were answered. In the caves beneath melancholy and charisma, a fire-breathing monster lurked.

“…Why me? Why _her_?”

His whispers turned to ear-splitting silence.

In the stillness, Elia placed her unspoken resentments aside as she settled into the misery of their existence. The irony was not lost on her, they were the two supposedly freest people in the realm and they were entirely imprisoned.

When she looked up, he gazed at her with eyes shrouded by icy storm clouds. The sweet prince that she found in Dorne was gone, and instead, a man succumb to darkness remained. And for reasons beyond her comprehension, she did not drop her gaze, but drew in closer, wanting from a man she was certain was entirely incapable of giving.

For the first time in so long, she reached for a comforting touch. Strangely, Elia found the contact conjured a flood of conflicting and overwhelming emotions. Expectedly, first came anger, then breath-stealing anguish, heartbreak, blame, guilt; and last of all – _longing_.

In Rhaegar’s expression she observed something dark, something akin to a stirring dragon. It was fleeting, but she had seen it, and a knot began to form in her stomach.

His hand travelled up until he pulled her into a peculiar embrace. He clutched on tightly like she was slipping away.

“I _need_ a son- ” He croaked into her hair.

Elia felt the drip of tears onto her head.

His torment triggered her grief; and all she could recall were the buried feelings of loneliness and anguish, and loss, and captivity returned.

“You will have your son…” She managed swallowing the thick lump in her throat.

“…A son with fair hair and purple eyes, a _true_ dragon-” She snapped.

Whispers of another Baelor Breakspear, a Targaryen more of sun-fire than dragon-fire shadowed their young Rhaenys, the princess that was not enough. 

“When?” Rhaegar interrupted brusquely.

His eyes were a chilling, translucent indigo in the dark of night, less like ice and more like a blizzard, terrifying and filled with a vow of a monstrous wrath. Her husband had become impatient and cruel; and now Elia comprehended everything – his distance, his covert hostility, his sequestration of Rhaenys – as means of punishment and threat. He would have his son, or she would have _nothing._

She yanked her hand from his grip as the memories of his last purposeful caresses assaulted her. His tender coercions that had led them to this point of love, loss and loathing.

“I will not bear the brunt of your anger because you cannot see the truth and want what you want. The gods’ have not yet blessed us, but it is not _my_ fault!”

Her voice rose to a timbre neither of them expected.

“Then whose fault is it?” Rhaegar shot back, eyes ablaze with a fire she was afraid could out-burn the sun.

Black flaming orbs challenged indigo irises and they waited for the weakest inferno to be engulfed.

“Perhaps if you loved me at all you might have your son.”

He was stunned into speechlessness, and silence permeated between them like a thick smog.

Elia realised that for the first time ever, they felt the same way about each other. They both blamed each other for their failures in marriage.

Their mutual blame was acknowledged, and now that it was out in the open, it was evident neither knew what to do with this new intricacy in their relationship.

In time, Elia found the words to carry on.

“I think we both can agree that we can’t continue on like this.”

She was exhausted from trying to force together pieces that did not match. She understood Rhaegar was as fatigued as she was from attempting to feel things he did not feel. Although he had much of the power between them, he was as much a captive in their union as she was. 

“No. We can’t.” He agreed.

“So, I suppose we ought to take this opportunity to lay all our burdens bear and talk frankly for once...”

He studied her curiously as she spoke.

“…about what needs to change to make this marriage work.”

It was an offer of an alliance said in a tone more suited to war than marriage. Yet, Elia supposed marriage was just as complicated as war.

She understood they had to cooperate for the sake of the Iron Throne and Targaryen dynasty. With no viable out, Elia sought to compromise for both of their sakes. 

“Very well, who goes first?”

Before she managed a response Rhaegar interrupted, the embers of his dragon-fire not yet extinguished.

“Stupid question. If I have learnt a single thing by now, it is that I come second to your _dearest_ Ashara. She is more your husband than I, perhaps she can cause your womb to quicken.” He jabbed.

His words cut deeper than she expected. The woman in her was wounded by insinuations of inadequacy.

“Are you so surprised? I have no one on that wretched cold island, even the majority of my ladies are now made up of maids you chose.”

After the explosive conflict between King and heir fences were mended with Elia’s privacy bartered away. Her ladies-in-waiting were replaced with northern ladies with husbands and fathers loyal to Aerys that bore no love for a Dornish princess.

Although Ashara’s position had been out of the question, Olene Oakheart was a particularly cruel pick. 

“I had to appease my father and his court. Paranoia of my motives have increased since our marriage. I have even heard one such rumour of my own _secret_ army.”

It was a fact she was wholly aware of, but it did not mean she could not despise nor complain about it.

“In any case, I am alone, save Asha and young Serra. Don’t make me choose between you-”

“Why? Because it is them – _Ashara_ you would choose? Yes, I am quite aware.”

There was no denying the truth of his statement, especially when Elia had been the one to ask him to strip naked of sweet lies.

“And what of your behaviour my prince?” She countered.

“What of it?”

“You are lost…” She stated.

“…and you have been in this state long before the fallout with your father. All these grandiose ideas and plans you make have never come to fruition. You are lost in your role, and you are lost in yourself…”

His thick silver brow frowned as she explained.

“…Your father once declared it was his wish to be the greatest king in the history of the Seven Kingdoms, just like you. During his early reign, he was ambitious and boasted many impressive plans, just like you. He came to Dorne and promised to build an underwater canal to make the deserts of Dorne bloom – and like all his plans, nothing came of it… just like you.”

Elia saw the words land like a hammer to the chest, knocking all life out of him.

He was no Aerys, but she would be damned to ignore the similarities and end up another Rhaella in years to come. Elia had glimpsed the dragon beneath the surface that stirred some terrible foreboding in her core.

“I am _not_ my father!” Rhaegar’s voice roared with a ferocity so unlike the usual soft cadence that it unnerved her. 

The wake of his outburst left nothing but shame. It appeared he had frightened himself more than he did her.

“Sorry,” he whispered, horrified with the loss in composure.

His eyes evaded her when he spoke next. “I am not my father – but, I fear that I might one day become him. Weak, spiteful, violent… loveless… _mad._ ” He confessed, in a croak barely above a whisper.

Elia’s anger subsided, and gazing at his expectant expression, she pitied him. She was reminded that stone walls and iron bars were not the only means of imprisonment. Rhaegar had been born into a dark and lonely dungeon; and even if he were to see light, it would blind him. 

“Rhaegar, you will not become your father…”

She apologized with her touch, a soft caress to his cheek, one he turned into.

“…not if I’m at your side. I won’t allow you to become haughty and fall to your demons, my love.”

He peered down at her with a forlorn expression but nodded. Eventually he released a heavy sigh that called life back into his eyes.

“Look, I realize this marriage has turned out to be something quite different to what we both imagined. And we find ourselves in captivity. But, there is no exit route to this. I want our troubles to be a thing of the past.”

Elia pushed her pride and pain aside, resolved to trying, once again, despite the strange inkling in her bones telling her to run.

“So, what would make it easier on you? What will it take to make it work... to make it bearable?”

It was evident he did not expect her words, as his mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“You...”

She listened curiously, equally surprised by his response.

“Let me love you, and by the Seven I’ll try, I will…” He continued.

His words were entirely perplexing to her. Just hours before she had been contemplating his level of distain for her, and now he stood before her _asking_ for her _love_. It was everything she yearned for, and yet it did not quell the turmoil inside of her in the ways she expected.

“I would have you _choose_ me as your husband _…_ as your _equal_.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach as she recalled vows made long ago, and not ones made with him.

_‘Promise me he will never get in between us, that if there ever comes a choice between him and I, you will choose me.’_

_‘I swear it dearest Asha, I will choose you until my last breath, and likely beyond then.’_

In the time since Rhaenys birth and the loss of their child, something shifted between her and Ashara. Elia was once content to ignore all intense ineffable emotions regarding Ashara, especially since that fateful day when the Dornish beauty had dangled everything in front of her and yanked it away following dawn. Now, floods of repressed desires, hopes and love washed over her, and she shook with the realisation. It was love. It had always been real, _true_ love. Elia was in love with Ashara Dayne, and now that she acknowledged it, she was entirely devastated.

Elia was at the crossroads she deluded herself into believing would never come. However Rhaegar masked it, he was asking her to make a decision in the gentlest way possible.

Love him, or love Ashara, it could not be both.

“If you choose me then we shall have our son, our kingdom and our glory. I know it in my heart.” He interrupted her reverie.

Loving him – giving him a son – this, was his price for peace in their war; and she knew it was no bargain at all. She could not deny him anything, not solely due to her love for him, but because he could take it anyway. Stealing away Rhaenys was proof enough of that. She reasoned that subconscious knowledge of this must have been why she hardly put up a fight the first time he came begging for a son.

If her husband wanted her body and her heart, it was his to take, and he could ask her nicely as he did now, or he could claim it as Aerys did.

Elia had little choice but to choose a husband she did not understand and a realm that would never embrace her. She felt her heart crack and she wondered if this would be the instrument to finally _bow, bend_ and _break_ her Martell fire. 

To her eternal shame, Elia nodded and swallowed the bile risen in her throat, unable to voice her betrayal. She picked Rhaegar over Ashara, who was everything and more, and had always been.

“And what would you have from me?” He asked.

His question cut through the spiral she began to fall into.

She wanted the one thing that could make it all better again, that might just put her world to right.

_Power._

Elia reasoned that only a Queen’s crown could rectify all the wrongs decided that night. She satisfied herself that only power could justify losing love for.

Thus, she moved toward a throne and away from love.

“I wish for my Dornish blood and kin to be recognised as what we are. I was born a princess and Westeros seems to have forgotten that. I need the respect and acknowledgment of your lords at home _and_ at court. An end to their snobbery and prejudice, no more being sniffed at for being an outsider with a background no one understands.”

Although it was her own voice, she was filled with the spirit of Furiosa. 

“I defend you, what more can I do?”

“The only way I will gain their respect, is with the sole thing those creatures understand; something irrefutable that shuts them up and commands their submission; an iron throne to bow before… You must become King Rhaegar, and I, Queen.”

For the second time that night, Rhaegar looked like she had thrown him physical blows as opposed to mere words.

He was still and looked at her with such disbelief that she realised that even if he once toyed with such thoughts, he had never heard them aloud.

“You wish me to overthrow my father to save our marriage?”

“No. You _must_ overthrow your father to save your family.”

Deposing Aerys would have been the course of action ultimately, they both knew that, even if Rhaegar did not wish to acknowledge it. The king grew madder with every day; the stags and wolves and lions and thorns were manoeuvring; and Elia understood it was their marriage that would sustain them before anyone else took it from their hands.

Eventually, Rhaegar answered.

“Very well, I must do what must be done.”

That night, he worshipped her with dragon-fire, and as they coalesced, she knew that this was the beginning of the end.

After, as she laid shivering in the arms of the man she knew she did not belong with, silent tears of betrayal slid down her cheeks. If Rhaegar noticed, he did not say. They both laid in the wake of love and war; and Elia spoke the final words of armistice.

“Husband?”

He shuffled to look at her, and the smile on his face died as he read the expression across hers.

“Elia?”

She smiled sweetly as she affectionately stroked his cheek.

“Should you ever contemplate taking Rhaenys from me again, I want you to know that there is no winter cold enough, or ocean deep enough, or desert hot enough to keep me from my child.”

His eyes widened just a fraction, and she saw him comprehend how gravely serious she was.

“My love, I’ll kill you,” she promised in a whisper, and a gentle kiss to his lips.

Elia’s was a threat undisguised by petty deeds. Rhaegar might have forced Ashara from her; but he would never have her little Rhaenys, not while she still drew breath. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus, life happened with the terrible energy of 2020 and I lost my father and nearly gave up writing altogether. I'm hoping to continue this story and the others I have but I cannot make any promises. Hope you enjoyed the new chapter and have some thoughts on the direction of the story.


	43. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur is faced with choices he set in motion years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arthur

_The Kingswood Brotherhood._

Westeros’ most infamous criminal group had struck fear into the hearts of the nobility in a few short months, although rumour was that they had been around for far longer than that. Arthur knew it as fact. He watched his cousin Vorian, walk amongst the wayward group with chaos and vengeance in their eyes.

For over a year, as Arthur hid in Dragonstone, his mind remained in Kings Landing, churning over the threatening promise of the Brotherhood’s rebellion.

_‘…we are the realm’s reckoning. Come to put an end to the corrupt order of our Kingdoms. Those that remain on the side of the oppressor shall be cast out into the cold world that we have known and endured.’_

They claimed themselves a brotherhood working to serve true justice, working to rid the world of corruption and restore balance. In theory, they should have been revered. In practice, they were a symbol against the order of the Targaryen’s realm.

It was no secret Lord Tywin’s work as Hand of the King axed many of the smallfolks rights, and the King neglected and terrorised all in his dominion. Arthur was aware of what the King’s City was. Yet, he was duty bound to the corrupt system they wished to overhaul. Right or wrong did not matter, the King’s word was law. Thus, Arthur continued with his duties to King and heir, and with every report of the Brotherhoods exploits, he remained silent with a deep frown on his face and fledgling hope in his heart. Hope for what, he was not sure. 

At first, the Brotherhood’s shenanigans in the Kingswood began small; taking only cheap trinkets, coin, or wagons of food– things that were easily missed. But as time passed without being caught, they grew bold, stealing family heirlooms, rescuing smallfolk prisoners from the King’s justice of fire and blood; and recently, captures and ransoms. They established themselves a fearsome force dominating the Kingswood and driving nobles away with every act.

When Arthur returned to the Crownlands, after the explosive argument between Aerys and Rhaegar, conversations of rebellion on the horizon were whispered in every corner of the Red Keep. Although, none could be sure from where: Rhaegar, or Dorne, or Tywin Lannister, or the Kingswood Brotherhood.

The nobles at court were terrified and furious, and were calling for the heads of the Kingswood brotherhood with the kind of viciousness that belonged more in an illegal fighting pit than in the gilded halls of the Red Keep.

Arthur’s feelings were a little more conflicted. Whilst he sympathised with the Brotherhood’s ideology, he could never express nor act on such notions. More than that, his heart was heavy because he was once again on the opposing side of his kin, Vorian. The boy in him that had believed it possible to uphold the pillars of Sword of the Morning battled with the hardened man in the heavy white-cloaked armour.

Therefore, when Aerys ordered the entirety of his guards to remain in King’s Landing, he knew the Gods saw fit to watch the sons of Dayne battle a final time.

It appeared the Gods were hellbent on punishing him for his very first mistake, allowing Vorian to be exiled rather than embracing him as a brother; as he had sworn that fateful day.

 _‘We will rise as brothers... I vow to always treat and recognise you as my equal_.’

Lady Dayne’s fears had been Vorian would always be a threat to him for his resentment over Dawn; and in the end, at every turn, it was Arthur who terrorised Vorian, and thwarted any hope of him becoming the great knight he was once promised to be.

Darkly, Arthur wondered if he was perhaps being punished for showing Vorian mercy at the Witness of his ascension to Sword of the Morning in the first place.

When Arthur had reunited with Vorian, he saw a glimpse of a redeemed man; one with true purpose greater than glory. It was strange that it was Vorian that offered _him_ the chance to stand as brothers, showed _him_ a path to redemption.

However, Arthur still wondered if Vorian was truly redeemed as he claimed, or if this was another ploy for power, to prove himself the worthy Dayne cast out by kin.

As Arthur sat at the council organised to quell the Kingswood Brotherhood, thoughts of his duty and his lost brother swirled at the forefront of his mind.

“The brotherhood struck again last night. They have grown bolder than ever before, and have stolen something that is of far greater worth than any trinket-” Ser Gerold Hightower explained.

“That vile bitch Wenda the White Fawn has taken young Merrett Frey! _”_ Lord Sumner Crakehall snarled, slamming both hands down on the table and rising from his chair.

It was not the first time the brotherhood had kidnapped a noble, as of late they took to ransoming any that dared to enter their woods. Although, no blood had yet been spilled, Arthur knew the moment it was, this mission would end with one result; the end of the Brotherhood; and the death of Vorian – kin – and that stirred something uneasy in his stomach.

“The bastards are demanding 150 gold dragons for Frey!”

He knew, of course, why Lord Sumner was so upset– for a Lord to lose their squire was akin to announcing their own incompetence. Furthermore, had his other squire, the young Jaime Lannister, been taken, Sumner was sure to have lost his head before threats of ransom were even uttered.

“We have already declared his return to be of the highest priority, my lord. Yet, you are well aware the favour the brotherhood hold amongst the smallfolk. What more would you have us do?” Ser Gerold asked.

“Burn the Kingswood to the bloody ground if you have to... and the smallfolk with it.” He said petulantly.

A chorus of agreement came from some members, most notably Aerys cronies, ever loyal to their master to answer everything with fire and blood.

“What if we raised the bounty for the most infamous among them – Simon Toyne and the Smiling Knight?” Ser Harlan Grandison suggested.

“It has been said that the brotherhood must be getting aide from the smallfolk to be able to disappear so well. If that is the case, then increasing the bounty will mean that those assisting them will have more to gain by giving them up than by keeping them hidden.” He explained.

Lord Qarlton Chelsted, the master of coin, leaned forward slightly, folding his hands on the table.

“And where do you propose this money comes from?” he asked.

“The current reward is already higher than for any other criminals in Westerosi history.”

“Is that not your jurisdiction, my lord?” Ser Oswell Whent interrupted bitingly, matching Qarlton’s pose with a gleam in his eye.

“Yes, Ser Oswell, and I am telling you the Throne has no money for it… perhaps you ought to ask your master Rhaegar.”

The odium between Aerys and Rhaegar’s supporters since their public falling out was at an all-time high, and suspicion from both sides was rampant.

“Crown _Prince_ Rhaegar.” Ser Oswell corrected.

Arthur observed from afar and searched for what they had all missed.

“I have a suggestion…” Arthur interrupted.

While the bounty was a good idea and raising it certainly kept the public eye on the outlaws, Arthur knew that they were going to have to take a different approach– one that was both more direct than merely waiting for the bounty to be sufficient bait, and yet more subtle than Sumner’s obvious blundering.

“Have we considered appealing to the smallfolk. Their allegiance to the Brotherhood stands because they consider their rights. Oughtn’t we appeal to their sympathies too and begin a dialogue with them?”

Many of the council shared uneasy looks between themselves before a chorus of protests came. Yet, just when he believed his idea was to be swept under away Prince Lewyn spoke up for him.

“Lord Commander, he is right. We should appeal to the smallfolk and attempt to understand the Brotherhood’s true motives.”

Lewyn gazed at him knowingly, he was protecting him and his secret, as the Kingsguard did for one another.

Lewyn and Gerold shared an unspoken conversation before the Lord Commander spoke again.

“Take it to the King, Ser Arthur.” Concluded Gerold.

The meeting with King Aerys was, of course, exhausting.

Aerys wished to know why they needed the smallfolk on their side and refused to have any communication with the Brotherhood. Aerys only demanded to know why they had yet to be caught.

“I do not need to hear of your plans, I wish to see that you are getting things _done_. When will you be sure of your ability to _burn_ all these treasonous dogs?”

“I am already certain, Your Grace,” Arthur responded, knowing that was the only acceptable answer he could give.

“Then see it done.”

Throughout the negotiations Arthur’s mind remained on Vorian and when he returned to his quarters, he was surprised to find a note – a challenge – from his estranged brother.

‘ _You once said the bond of blood is our greatest strength,_

_if you are truly worthy you will go the furthest length,_

_prove to me your hands are fit for Dawn,_

_and you shall retrieve the boy took by Fawn._

_Come seek us where we parted,_

_And the Witness shall be restarted.’_

Arthur curled his hand around the note, the parchment crinkling between his fingers, Vorian wished to play games with him to prove some point. With this action, and obvious subsequent reactions, Arthur understood a duel to the death between the sons of Dayne was certain.

Yet, he would be damned if he did not at least try and prevent such fatal consequence. Thus, Arthur reacted and left for the Kingswood hidden under black cloak.

Their witness before the Gods had begun.

When he arrived, Vorian was alone in the Kingswood clearing donned in his black Essosi armour and the helm Arthur gifted him seemingly a lifetime ago. Vorian was nearly twice as muscular than the last he saw him, and through his helm, the permanent scarred smile appeared twice as grotesque.

He looked as terrifying as the speculation of _the Smiling Knight_ , his new moniker, told. All rumours of this fearsome knight spoke of brutality more frightening than when Vorian saw himself Lord of the Scorched Rock and the divine son of Mother Rhoyne.

“Are we truly doing this _again,_ fighting for some lost cause because of some bloody title?” Arthur asked incredulously.

Emerald eyes studied him curiously, as he circled him slowly on his steed.

“I am helping _you_ find redemption. Last we spoke, it was _you_ that was lost, _brother_.” Vorian spat out.

Arthur could not deny he was lost, but in the time since their last meeting, he had convinced himself of the rightness of his position. He was the King’s warrior and his duty was the King’s word. It had gotten easier to satisfy himself with this reasoning hidden far away on Dragonstone with the prospect of Rhaegar, the chosen prince, come to save the realm, one-day soon ascending the Iron Throne. He held onto this hope with everything because he had to. The alternative was inconceivable. 

“There is no redemption for me, only duty, and that is to the King.”

For a brief moment, Arthur thought he saw some great emotion in Vorian’s eyes but when he blinked, it was gone as quickly as it came. 

“Then why are you here?” Vorian asked knowingly, bringing his steed to halt, threateningly above him.

Arthur opened and closed his mouth uselessly, searching for words to articulate his choices.

“I’m all that stands between you and fire and blood. I may have no choice in my King’s commands, but I am not so far gone to have forgotten all my vows as Sword of the Morning. I am here to protect you, just like the last time we stood on opposite sides _.”_ Arthur revealed.

_‘There is no oath above Sword of the Mornings duty.’_

Despite his stance, staunchly behind his Kingsguard oaths, incessantly he heard his own words from so long ago as distant whispers in the back of his head. 

Vorian’s eyes bore into him so intensely, Arthur shifted uncomfortably. He felt as if Vorian could steal his every thought the longer he stared into him unblinking, and when he spoke, it almost seemed as if he had.

“Because I am _still_ the poor lost son of Dayne you are burdened to rescue from himself and redeem into the man you believe I should have been if things were different…”

Again, he scrutinized him with his gaze.

“…do you want to know what I believe?” His voice was low now, and the woods seemed to react to it too, as the trees eerily bristled to his dark tone.

“This is not truly about me. It never has been. All your effort is about _your_ failure. You did not fail me, you failed yourself. From the beginning you have known deep down you are not truly worthy…”

Vorian revealed his darkest insecurities and Arthur had nothing inside him to argue.

“…So, you have set yourself this insane pledge to fight for my redemption because of the monster _you_ created… and if the monster – the unworthy brother – can be redeem, then there is hope for you too…”

His words were a truth Arthur had not dared to utter even to himself.

“… and you might actually be able to use that special sword of yours.”

Vorian pointed to Dawn, the great sword that always felt too heavy to use, and not from the weight of the milky blade _._

It should not have shocked him as much as it did that Vorian understood him so well. Afterall, they shared a bond like no other from their unique experiences with one another.

Arthur had reasoned with himself that he always used _Mercy_ , his father’s sword, instead of Dawn because he honoured Ser Waters, but as Vorian spoke, he feared his brother was right about him, and it struck a nerve. 

“And this…”

He threw out Vorian’s note in anger.

“… _challenge_ , is how you see fit to help redeem me?” Arthur shot back.

Vorian’s face split into a vicious grin.

“How else does Sword of the Morning prove himself worthy if not by Witness?”

Arthur sighed deeply as his mind wandered back to their duel for Dawn at the Starborn tournament.

“I do not want to kill you.”

Vorian dismounted, threatening him with his size. Although he was larger, Arthur still saw the boy he grew up with.

Vorian nodded knowingly before he clapped.

The brotherhood appeared from the woods as they did last, circling him, although none held their weapons in threat.

“What is this?”

Another man spoke now, wearing the armour of the old House Toyne, and Arthur recognised him as the leader of the Brotherhood, Simon Toyne.

He gestured with the sword in his hand to the banner his brethren held.

“Do you see our banner?”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“ _Not for oneself, but for others_ …” Simon recited.

“…Those in this brotherhood are here not just for society’s sake, but for their own. Many of them have enemies - such is the nature of being anathema to the Targaryen’s rule. We were unwanted, so we made ourselves wanted. Ser Arthur, ask yourself, how long until the Mad King or his son deem you the same as us, and you follow the same fate?”

Everyone knew the ground beneath them in King’s Landing was as unsteady as shifting sands. All it took was to catch Aerys on a bad day, and all could be cast away.

“I have made an unbreakable oath to the King.” Arthur replied in that rehearsed way he had come to fool himself with.

“You have broken oaths before.” Vorian commented.

“A choice I have regretted every day since.”

If it was so easy to stand on the side of the right and just, Arthur would, but what was defined as right was ever changing, and was always defined by the men in power.

“Although not enough to rectify that choice. I am offering you my forgiveness of all transgressions of the past, and to stand with me, here and now, brother, as true Sword of the Morning.” Vorian pleaded.

Arthur was nearly tempted to walk away from it all. But he saw the violence of Duskendale enacted upon his House, and above all else, his family – his sister – was his duty.

“I cannot. But you do have choice, you all do. Disappear and find some joy in this wretched life.” Arthur begged.

“You cannot stand by any longer, today you _will_ make a choice.”

Vorian signalled, and a woman Arthur assumed to be Wenda White Fawn appeared, dragging two hostages with their heads covered.

“This is Merrett Frey… and this is Ser Victor Tyrell…” Wenda explained pointing to the two hostages.

“…One of them is going to die. And you are going to decide which one. If you truly are the righteous and good, the decision should be easy.”

Vorian smiled that deranged grin of his as Arthur realised in horror the challenge organised for him.

“Ser Victor raped me and murdered my sister…” She circled the terrified hostages as she spoke, pain evident in her stormy blue eyes.

Arthur studied her intently, seeking the truth of her words, and when he saw a familiar haunting in her eyes, like that of his sister’s violet eyes, he found a rage grown inside him.

“…and this boy, young Merrett Frey, well his only crime is being son of Lord Walder…”

She dipped her iron stick into the fire.

“… So, who deserves to die Ser Arthur?”

“I am no judicator. It is not my case to judge.” Arthur reasoned despite the hatred burning in his chest. 

“The Brotherhood are the realm’s justice where the King and upper echelon of society have neglected such duties.” Wenda answered.

A screech erupted through the air, and Arthur noticed Wenda brand her iron stick into young Merrett’s skin.

“Make a choice good knight and see yourself the hero of this day.” She urged.

She stuck the iron in the fire again, and before Arthur could act, they were interrupted by the fast galloping of a horse towards the clearing. When Prince Lewyn revealed himself, and offered him his hand, Arthur was presented with another choice.

“Ser Arthur, come.”

Blood or duty.

Arthur took the offered hand, and the spirits of every previous Sword of the Morning hounded in his bones.

“For the boy...”

Lewyn threw a satchel to the ground.

“…half now, and the rest when he is returned to his squire.”

Although the payment was taken, Arthur knew the choice he had made was one he was likely to lament about forever. Moreover, he was certain the journey with Vorian was near its end. 


	44. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara and Elia run into unexpected trouble on their journey home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara

**Ambush**

Something _dangerous_ was in the air, something so present it was near tangible. Whether it was the usual aftereffects of King’s Landing or something else entirely, Ashara could not quite decipher it.

The politics of the realm had been largely at play during their stay. There were whispers of treason from many directions and the distrust between the lords of Westeros had become difficult to hide. Something was coming, everyone in the realm felt it, but what or when that something was, no one knew. Although Ashara felt that, what concerned her most is that there was something wrong with Elia.

As Ashara sat in the carriage with the Princess’ small retinue headed back toward the dreary Dragonstone castle, she wondered what had changed in the time from arriving in the King’s city to leaving it.

Elia’s mouth had been clamped shut since Rhaegar hurriedly escorted them into a carriage, and if she did not wholeheartedly trust Elia to always be honest with her, she might have wondered if they were fleeing something.

As they bound away Ashara could not shake the foreboding feeling that clung to her skin. Gazing at Elia, Rhaenys tightly clasped to her chest, it seemed she shared the same sentiments. There was more than vexation in her dark eyes, just beyond the black, Ashara saw fear.

Rhaenys was also unnervingly disturbed by the tense and suffocating air around them. She was near hysterical; thrashing restlessly and crying without reasoning to find comfort in her mother’s arms.

As Ashara had done since the princess’ birth, despite her lack of maternal instinct, she opened her arms to take Rhaenys from Elia, so that she might have a moments respite from wrestling with the small but powerful little dragon. The exhaustion from the holyday celebrations were evident in Elia’s expression and Ashara’s heart ached from watching her struggle. 

As she had ardently protested, they should never have attended the celebrations in the first place, especially since Elia’s loss and Rhaenys poor reception previously. More than anyone, aside from Elia herself, she knew just how physically weakened Elia was since the birth and the loss; and remembered with vivid clarity just how close to death Elia had come.

The carriage bumped and shook from the force of the horses’ sprint, and the phantom feeling at the back of her neck, did not lessen with every yard away from King’s Landing.

Even Ser Gerold Hightower seemed on edge as he gripped the hilt of his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“We shall be home soon enough, Elia.” Ashara soothed, despite the nervous anticipation she felt swirl in the pit of her stomach.

Elia flashed a tight smile, although her eyes worried for the child in Ashara’s arms. In turn, Ashara cradled Rhaenys tighter, whose dark indigo eyes were red with tears, and hummed a Rhoynish lullaby. Eventually, the almond shaped orbs, so similar to Elia’s, drooped shut and the little princess settled into her calmly, and with it, Elia too.

Just as the carriage slowed, and Ashara took a breath of relief, Gerold held out his hand to prevent them from moving.

“Ser Ger-”

“Do not move, Princess.”

Ashara was vaguely aware that the journey to the harbour seemed far longer than it had ever before, and she could not hear the usual bustle of the sea. Yet, it was not until she heard the urgent tone in Gerold’s voice that she realised something was very wrong.

“Look after the Princess, Lady Ashara.”

Elia’s hand immediately found her own, as they froze in place, turning their eyes to Gerold as he dismounted the carriage.

It was difficult to make out where they were in the darkness of night and the small opening behind Gerold’s white cloak. If anything, the cloak mixed with their fear painted ghostly figures which danced beyond their Kingsguard.

A million thoughts rushed through Ashara’s head and they were all mirrored in Elia’s dark eyes.

Was this the end? Had the Mad King lost all sanity and decided to murder his gooddaughter and granddaughter?

However, the Lord Commander’s confusion and grim frown told them that he was as surprised as they were.

“Stay calm, all is well, it appears we are in the Kingswood. I shall inform the charioteer to turn us around.” He reassured with an expression which did not match his words.

The Kingswood had not been safe for several months now, for the Brotherhood that owned its paths. Word of their exploits of theft, capture and ransom had sailed to Dragonstone; and Ashara feared it was them.

Instinct screamed in Ashara to bolt away from the danger, but she remained as rigid as stone, for the fear in Elia’s eyes. She held both Princesses tighter, feeling the need to be the protector she had grown into since Rhaenys birth.

The undecipherable hush of a heated exchange ensued but Ashara could not calm for the feeling that had been latched to her since they had arrived in the Crownlands. She felt words spilling out her mouth she had not even processed in her mind.

“Trust me, and do exactly as I say, and all will be well.”

“What are yo-”

A yelp that made her blood run cold interrupted. It pierced her brain and ignited some primeval pathway. Adrenaline surged through her veins, and she shifted herself closest to the door, shielding Elia and Rhaenys. 

Signs of struggle ensued beyond the carriage as they listened intently. Eventually, the noise stopped, and a deafening silence surrounded them, before a knock sounded at the door.

“Come on out, Your Grace, your subjects would like to meet their future Queen.” A man’s raspy voice called.

There was no doubt in Ashara’s mind it was the Kingswood Brotherhood.

Neither woman moved and their eyes remained on one another, communicating without words.

_What are we to do?_

Another knock came, harder and more urgent.

“Princess Elia!”

Ashara was willing to barricade them inside the carriage but as she calculated all the possible outcomes of whatever situation this was, her conclusions all returned to one singular thought. If anyone must be captured this day, she would have it be her. For was that not what she had promised herself long ago, that whatever came she would face it with Elia, and carry whatever she could for all Elia had done for her.

Thus, she pulled her face into the most reassuring smile she could muster and began to loosen her fingers from Elia’s.

Predictably, Elia’s hand resisted such a movement. 

“Look at me, my sweet…” Ashara instructed quietly, coaxing confused eyes to her own.

“…There is no me without you. I have already nearly lost you once. I shall not do it again.”

Elia’s eyes widened with the implications of her words.

“Asha-”

“Your Grace, come on out, we will not harm you.” The man called again.

Although it was not reassuring, the Brotherhood had yet to spill any blood, and so, with these thoughts Ashara continued.

“The blood of the sun does not bow, bend or break, is that not so?”

Elia’s dark eyes searched hers until they found whatever they were looking for and relented.

“It is so.” She whispered back.

“Good. Now do as I ask and remain in here until it safe to leave. You must protect Rhaenys.” She said with purpose.

As she dismounted the carriage, she cemented her plan; keeping them talking long enough for them to be rescued, the disappearance of the future Queen and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard would be noticed sooner rather than later.

The first thing Ashara noticed was Gerold, laid on the ground unconscious with an arrow through his sword hand; and beside him, the terrified carriage driver knelt in the dirt. Then, as her eyes adjusted to the shadows of the forest, a band of figures, the Kingswood Brotherhood, stood around the carriage, watching her carefully.

Her eyes settled on the gangly man closest to her, with the sinister grin smeared across his large features. He inched closer to her with the caution of a creature who had spent its life in perpetual darkness.

“You are the Brotherhood I assume.” Ashara surprised herself with the steadiness in her own tone.

“Ahh Princess, I am Long Limb Ulmer, it is a pleasure to finally meet our _beautiful_ future Queen.” He greeted with a smile of near infatuation.

He knelt to her, and whilst bended, lifted his eyes, and offered out his hand for hers. 

When she did not give up her hand to him his expression dropped.

“ _Princess_ , did they not teach you in Dorne it is rude to not receive your subjects.” Another voice came from the darkness.

Something about this voice seemed familiar, and when her eyes settled on its owner, a muscular knight whose strange disfigured smile was hidden behind a helm, she knew they had met before; although she could yet place it. A smiling knight.

“Princess Elia…” Ulmer said drawing her attention to him once more.

“They taught me it is best to meet ones’ subject during the light of day, Ser.” She answered.

“Then consider us your evening’s entertainment.”

Sniggering erupted from the figures around her, although she noted the man behind the helm did not join his brethren.

“Name what it is you want.” Ashara interrupted the laughter.

The smiling knight approached her, and a panic began to rise inside her. Her eyes settled on his odd smile and she noticed he was not smiling at all, he was merely scarred in such a way it appeared he was permanently grinning.

“You know…”

He settled up close to her, green eyes filled with distain as his eyes roamed about her so invasively it felt as if he were touching her.

“You remind me of my aunt, and I _hated_ my aunt.”

Again, she could not shake the feeling she had heard his voice before, although for the terror inside her, she could not begin to place it.

“I am the Princess Elia of Dorne. What, do, you, want?”

Her manner amused him, and she managed to hold her ground until he halted directly in front of her, breath-width apart, and her resolve began to falter.

She released a shaky breath in response to his hateful stare.

However, her focus shifted to his gruesome scar as his tongue slithered out to lick at the mangled skin of his cheek, and suddenly, his hand yanked her neck back painfully with grip in her hair.

“Are you nervous Princess? Is it my scar?”

Despite the hammering in her chest Ashara attempted to pull out of his grasp to no avail.

“No.”

The smiling knight gazed at her knowingly.

“Would you like to know how I got it?” He asked with a menacing smirk.

When she looked away held her chin to force her attention to him.

“I think _you_ might find it absolutely captivating… it’s the age-old tale of two brothers. The loved versus the damned, and you can guess which one I am…”

For some reason, Ashara found herself curious to his story.

“…we fought, as brothers do, for attention and love and worthiness and glory. One day, in the fight of our lives, instead of putting me out of my misery as he should have done, his mercy was a blade in my mouth, and a smile on face as I was cast out into the coldness of his shadow.”

Realisation finally dawned. The smiling knight was Vorian Dayne.

“Vo-”

Before she could utter the name, she was silenced by the feeling of his chapped and scarred lips on her own. Immediately, all the strength she had had thus far deserted her and she was taken back to being that powerless child from so long ago. For a moment, she could not decipher present from past, and emerald eyes were blue, and the forest was Starfall, and she was shattered all over again.

“Stop!”

Elia’s voice jerked her out of her daze, and the moments solace of hearing it was replaced by a terror which surged through her veins and triggered her into action. Instinctively, her knee came up to his crotch sharply and sent him doubling over in pain as Ashara backed into Elia shielding her from the weapons pointed her way.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Ulmer spoke dragging Elia beside.

“She is my lady-in-waiting, let no harm come to her. It is me you want.” Ashara said before Elia could say another word.

The smiling knight released a gruff cackle as he regained his composure and rose to his feet.

“Return to the carriage, milady, do as your Princess commands.” A fair woman with a long neck and bow interrupted, pulling Ulmer and Vorian aside.

“I cannot do that, Lady…”

“White Fawn.” She provided.

“Lady White Fawn, I cannot leave the Princess alone to be subject to the perverse games of your brethren.” Elia explained, moving out from behind her.

Ashara wanted to protest, but she found Elia’s hand in her own was the only thing keeping her from falling into the anxiety of rehashed traumas.

“And as a woman, I would not allow that either. No harm shall come to her, you have my word.”

Threateningly, Wenda pressed her bow edge, a metal fawn, into the skin at the jugular base of Vorian’s neck.

“I meant no harm, on my knights’ honour.” Vorian declared with a feigned courteous bow.

“I assure you we are not here to play games…” A new figure spoke, and as the tensions shifted around them, Ashara recognised him to be the leader.

“…Where is your husband and his guard?” He said addressing her.

Ashara cleared her voice before she spoke, attempting to piece together the demeanour she bore before.

“The Prince remains in the Red Keep, he has made no indication of when he is to return to Dragonstone.” Ashara explained.

The leader and Vorian shared a hushed exchange before Elia interrupted.

“You have already injured the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, an offence of great magnitude, that will need to be answered for. If you capture the future Queen also, the King will answer you with fire and blood, and burn the Kingswood to the ground with you all in it. Everything you seek to prove will be in the ash of your bones. If it is the royal court’s attention you sought with this mission, you will now have it. Now, name your price to let us go.” Elia reasoned, her tone laced with threat that made even the leader raise his brows in surprise.

Silence settled as he considered her words, and in the end, he nodded in acceptance.

“Your jewels and coin. Then you may return to your journey.”

Ashara nodded when he looked to her.

They removed their jewels and gave them their valuables, including a chest of gold dragons she had not been aware was within their carriage.

Something was in the air, and as Ashara pieced together the events, she wondered if this had been arranged. Although, by who was not clear.

They were allowed to return to the carriage with an unconscious Ser Gerold lifted inside. Although, just before they departed, Vorian concealed a note into Ashara’s hand.

“Tell your brother he cannot live life in the silence of his role, he must make a choice.”

When they set off, Vorian remained stood, staring at her, with burning hatred in his eyes despite his scared grin, and Ashara could not shake emotion it conjured inside her.


	45. Smiling Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur comes to terms with fate, and faces an almighty foe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Warning for graphic descriptions of violence and death*
> 
> \- Arthur

**SMILING KNIGHT**

Arthur was going to kill his brother.

Understanding fate and existence was a subject that plagued all men. For the entirety of Arthur’s life, he battled over this more than most. As a child, he was the prodigy and golden boy of Starfall. It appeared Dawn was his to be had before he truly knew what the Sword of the Morning was. It was discussed as fact rather than mere speculation. Therefore, he too believed the prophesies of his greatness. Arthur Dayne was favoured by the gods, the Lord of Light and Seven alike _chose_ him.

Then, when faced with his sister’s cursed fate, Arthur chose to fashion the course of his life himself; primarily to protect Ashara from the Red Priestess’ tales of cursed purple ladies. Arthur’s journey to Dawn was by his own blood, sweat and tears. It was by his own hand that he gave his cousin, Vorian Dayne mercy; not because the Gods deemed it so, but because he made it so.

In his growth to manhood, on the voyage into himself, wandering the deserts of Dorne and meeting a Silver prince with a touch of destiny in Valyrian eyes, he questioned fate again.

Were all things predestined or was there choice and freedom?

His father, the Silent Knight, would have said; only death was predestined and all choices between birth and end were in mans’ hands. Yet, there were those that the Gods favoured beyond all others and their purpose was fixed.

His mother, Lady Dayne, might have said; the Lord of Light set our paths before conception.

When lines were drawn by the Brotherhood’s ambush of Princess Elia’s party, and Arthur found himself on the opposite side of kin once more, he understood he was always meant to _kill_ his brother. Whether it was during the Starborn tourney, or in the darkened forest of the Kingswood, it did not much matter, for his fate was fixed.

This notion was affirmed when god-designed circumstances fell smoothly into place after Vorian committed the one act Arthur could never forgive, in dragging Ashara into his twisted games. First, a force of adept swordsmen gathered easily, and then, the Brotherhood’s location was revealed unprompted by the smallfolk.

All that had happened between the sons of Dayne was to rectify Arthur’s defiance of the gods. They sought to teach him a long, hard lesson; and showed their might in the face of his haughtiness. He once believed himself god-like, powerful enough to steer the course of his own life, but now, he was humbled. 

It was a great irony that the gods would make him kinslayer and Sword of the Morning. However, both were a cursed existence in his mind.

In the dead of night, beneath a starry sky, Arthur led the attack against the Brotherhood and moved to end the battle that began nearly a decade ago.

When they arrived at the outlaw camp, they were welcomed with the sight of Ser Victor Tyrell hanging from a tree and a message carved into his forehead.

_‘Wrong choice.’_

Whilst the others misinterpreted the meaning, Arthur knew they were Vorian’s taunting words directed at him.

And when he eventually located his kin, clashing swords with Ser Barristan Selmy and the young squire, Jaime Lannister, he felt the fingers of fate clasp tightly around his neck. 

Arthur watched from the shadows awaiting his time to step in.

At some point, Barristan knocked the second sword from Vorian’s hand, and the defeat did nothing to phase Vorian as he shone in battle with one blade against the two. Yet, when Simon Toyne stepped in, Barristan was dragged away by the leader of the Brotherhood.

The young lion managed to hold his own a few moments, and although he was gifted with the sword, and gave as much as he took, he was no true match for the Smiling Knight.

In emerald eyes glistened gleeful amusement. However, when Arthur finally stepped out, and Vorian saw him outfitted in the armour of the Goldcloaks, strangely, his eyes widened in surprise before they settled into distilled hatred. 

He discarded the helm Arthur gifted him so long ago, and instead wore his warped smile bare for Arthur to see; to torment him for the damage done. 

“Look at you!” He yelled.

“The Mad King’s bitch!”

With a swift violent swing of his blade, he sent the young Lannister hurtling to the ground. Arthur stood between them as Jaime scrambled to his feet determined to finish the fight.

“I can best him Ser Arthur!” He protested, although his exhausted expression said otherwise.

“You have already proved yourself, _Ser_.”

Arthur intended to knight him when all was done and understanding washed over him. Jaime backed away hesitantly, withdrawing to a safer location as the two Daynes commenced their standoff.

Staring at him, Arthur felt anger begin to boil inside at thoughts of Vorian’s actions, of past and present.

Arthur’s mercy allowed him to cheat death and he had spat it back in his face. He knowingly attacked the most precious person to him and actively created the circumstances of their final standoff. It hurt beyond belief because Arthur did everything he could so that he could live. It was Vorian that ensured the gods would have their way.

Vorian paced like a giant predator deliberating on their prey, and Arthur mirrored his movements. Cautiously, the brothers judged each other; both despising what prowled before them.

With every passing second, he was reminded of their first duel, especially when Vorian twirled _Never Surrender_ in his grip. Naturally, Arthur’s hand gripped _Mercy,_ almost like muscle memory, but he stopped himself. He had no intention of showing mercy this night. Thus, for the first time, since the Scorched Rock, Arthur unsheathed _Dawn._

If the milky blade felt like it was made for him, he ignored such thoughts.

“Brother.” Vorian greeted, a deranged smirk appearing across his mangled features. 

The man stood before him, hardened by anger, sharpened by pain, eager with the thought of vengeance bore no resemblance to the boy he grew up with. Now, he appeared a foul creature hidden beneath his brother’s skin, turning his mischievous looks dark and deadly.

“You are _no_ brother of mine,” Arthur spat through gritted teeth.

He had never seen Vorian look that way, even when he was at his most lost – standing opposite him on the red sands of the Scorched Rock – now, his eyes held a deadness in his narrowed stare. The boy who once smiled beautifully, from High Hermitage to Starfall, the one who was everyone’s brother had developed a chilling hardness.

“Come and see, brothers in blood fight each other. Come and witness the wasted blood of a boy not fit to be a knight!” Vorian goaded, echoing words from their first duel.

Vorian was cognizant that one of them would die this day. Yet, his morbid grin told Arthur he had no understanding that it was his own demise he so excitedly headed toward.

“Do you not see? You fool, absolute _fucking_ fool. There is no going back from this, for either of us. You’ve left me no choice but to kill you.”

Reconciliation was no longer an option. His actions against the throne were reprehensible, but his actions against Ashara were unforgivable. He had rehashed old traumas that nearly broke the bond between sister and brother.

“This was not my doing. I gave you the price of my forgiveness, and once again, you chose to stand against me. You chose it to be this way.” Vorian retorted.

 _Never Surrender_ and _Dawn_ remained in place, neither Dayne was ready to engage, there were still grievances left unaired.

“All I’ve ever tried to do is protect you. You hurt Asha-”

“You hurt me!” Vorian interrupted with a sudden violent rage that made Arthur grip his sword tighter.

“You chose everyone over me – your _brother_ – the Martells, the Kingsguard, even this worshipped crown prince is more kin to you than I ever was. You broke your oath to me and betrayed your duty.”

That oath still haunted him and rang as loud in his head as the day he spoke it.

‘ _I vow to always treat and recognise you as my equal_.’

Arthur had failed him, but at every opportunity he had attempted to correct his errors and deliver on his promise; even with his hands tied behind his back by the million other oaths his positions demanded.

He saved and begged for Vorian’s life, again and again. At the battle of the Scorched Rock, when all else had failed, he defied orders and executed his escape. After, he postponed his Kingsguard aspirations, to walk the deserts of Dorne, so they might find redemption together. Even beyond the heartbreak of his rejection, he loved his wife and son in his absence, and when they reconnected, he hid his acts and identity in the Brotherhood; all so that he might keep that very first oath.

“Yes, yes, so many damned oaths. But what do you know of vows and duty? To ones house, to Dorne, to the throne – what am I to do when each demands the opposite from me?” Arthur snapped.

In his anger, he also felt jealousy. Vorian was blinded by envy to the freedom Arthur gave him; spared from the curse of Dawn. It was a terrible responsibility to be slave to gods and rulers, and he would not even wish it upon his greatest foe.

“I admit I failed you. I regret it more than you can ever know. But I had no choice-”

“You had a choice,” he interrupted, voice sharp as a knife.

“Vorian-”

“That is not my name!” He reprimanded.

Emerald eyes burned through him. 

“It was, before it, like all else, was taken from me. Before I was castaway and deemed scourge of the world and treated as such. Before my wife was driven from my side, from our home, by threat of execution, when neither she nor I had done anything to warrant such treatment. And all for chauvinism…”

He shook his head.

“…That boy, _Vorian_ , died the day you showed him mercy. And all these things I have suffered, at the hands of a man that is my blood. At the hands of you.”

A cruel sneer formed on his scarred face and he leaned forward, eyes bearing straight into Arthur’s own.

“That is not my name.” He repeated.

“And the Smiling Knight is what you would prefer? Some symbol to make people afraid in deluded ideology no better than the Mad King himself.” Arthur wondered.

“And you serve that mad man, how are you any better a knight or man than me?”

His mind flew back to the atrocities he committed in Duskendale and his inaction in the Red Keep as Aerys raped Rhaella. There was little difference between them. Only that the gods had chosen Arthur instead of Vorian, not because he was the better man, not for any particular reason he could see, only because they deemed it so. He did not revel in that knowledge, because he comprehended that it was no great existence.

Arthur answered him with silence.

Vorian stretched his mangled lips into a hideous victorious grin.

“I may be a monster, but so are you _Steelstar_. Afterall, you chose to be a kinslayer, same as I.”

“What are you talking about?”

Vorian gazed back at him with the same confusion he felt.

“You came here seeking glory and forfeited protecting your own house.”

Arthur was entirely lost by his meaning and searched his eyes for deception wondering if this was another one of his games.

“She didn’t tell you?”

It was both a question and a statement.

Dread crept over him like an icy chill, anticipating something he could not imagine would ever be true.

Vorian laughed humourlessly and disappointment flashed across his eyes.

“Ashara always hated me, I never expected her to forgive me for what I did to your leg at the Witness. It does surprises me she cares so little for your mother, however.”

“Enough! Spit it out,” he prompted impatiently.

Arthur held his breath as the words spilt from Vorian’s lips.

“The ambush of Princess Elia’s party. I left Ashara with a message to give to you. Glory or duty…”

Arthur was reminded of the tests of knowledge they competed against each other for _Dawn_. The final question that had elevated Arthur above Vorian; ‘ _What does the Sword of the Morning fight for?’_

Vorian had answered for the glory of House Dayne.

Arthur spoke words of duty, sacrifice and honour; _‘He fights to defend House Dayne, Dorne and the King. The Sword of the Morning’s place is in harm’s way, it is a sacrifice and it is an honour.’_

“…your challenge was to battle the brotherhood for glory or rescue your Lady mother from the assassins I sent to Starfall.” Vorian finished.

Arthur’s heart dropped into his gut and he was winded with the realisation of the choice Ashara took from him. She made him a kinslayer twice over and he shook with the knowledge of it.

After the shock, came red-hot scorching anger, and he exploded, raising _Dawn_ into the air.

A deafening clash sounded as the two swords met. From behind the entwined blades, both sets of dangerous eyes connected, locked in their own battle. Unreadable emotion sparked fiercely between the two while they both attempted to overpower the other. Their initial pause after the clash ended, and with a push, the sons of Dayne separated.

“Why – _why_ would you do this to me?” Arthur spluttered in utter disbelief.

Something akin to shame washed over Vorian’s expression, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

“Standing behind the noble Arthur how could I be anything but the lesser brother! I wanted to step out of your shadow and have my star shine. I wanted the gods notice me.”

Every word stung, only fuelling the fire that burned inside of him. Every violated phrase was like oil to it, and his fists clenched and his jaw rooted.

“I begged you to come home. I made way for you to join me, and I did everything I could to rectify the wrong done to you, but you _chose_ to destroy it, to destroy me...”

Burning rage hissed through his body like deathly poison, screeching a demanded release in the form of terrible violence. It was like an erupting star; fury sweeping off him like ferocious waves. The wrath consumed him whole, engulfing his moralities and destroying the boundaries of loyalty.

“…When the gods wanted you dead, _I_ kept you alive… and _this_ is how you repay my love?”

His voice, or maybe his words, made Vorian wince, and for a moment, there was deafening silence.

“Is that not the way with brothers – loving and hating one another all in the same breath?” 

He searched his eyes for guilt, or regret, or remorse, and when he found nothing, Arthur knew there was nothing left to be said.

“I can be monstrous too. I have done things that would shock you…”

His voice dropped dangerously low.

“…You wanted to know the difference between you and I. The difference is I am the monster the gods chose… and now I’m going to end this.”

And all too quickly, they launched into battle. 

Waves of nostalgia washed through Arthur as he once again met Vorian’s blade with his own. The air was sliced apart as glints of silver and black flashed in the eerily lit sky. The brothers sparred with cuts, blocks and parries. Although none hit their mark, one swordsman seemed closer to first blood than the other.

The force behind Vorian’s attack made Arthur’s arms shake, and he knew that his strength was going to be his biggest problem. He was larger than him now, not in height but in sheer size; grown as if pumped with iron. He used his size to his advantage, and Arthur felt him pressing against his blade, and trying to bare all of his weight down against him, and for a moment he strained against it, his muscles screaming at him. A smirk tilted Vorian’s twisted lips. But the smirk disappeared quickly.

Something about this duel felt different than before. It had a much more ominous atmosphere than the unintentional squabbles of their past. They knew this fight was the last.

“You think because they call you Steelstar, that you are indestructible. You are no god. I think you bleed like any other man!” His menacing eyes were a blazing green, and his mutilated mouth made the rest of his features just as terrifying.

Arthur wondered if he looked just as horrific. The thought that this was what they had both become shook him, and distracted as he was with memories of the past, Arthur failed to block the impending attack.

Unfortunately for him, the moment he let his defences down, Vorian snarled, and kicked out harshly, his foot coming into contact with the side of his leg, sending him onto one knee before _Never Surrender_ sliced his arm deeply. He felt a sting down his thigh as his blade continued its descent, opening his skin in a long, shallow slash.

Arthur was the first to fall. Yet, when he ascended, and truly embodied the Sword of the Morning, he was filled with the spirit of the past men to wield _Dawn_ in their hand. He felt their phantom grip on its hilt, was propelled by their strength in his thrust; and was cheered on by their worlds-distant calls. 

The sons of Dayne fought until they lost all recognition of each other and themselves. When swords missed impact, they used their fists to pummel each other, until both were broken and bleeding. They fought off years of staggering resentment and anger.

Arthur wanted to kill Vorian for the sins of the present, and for the past. He wanted him dead for murdering his mother, for hurting Ashara, for wasting his freedom; for abandoning his wife and son; for making him be his end… for not being the chosen one. Had it been the other way around, Vorian would have killed him the first time their swords were set against one another. A hushed part of Arthur wondered if he might have preferred that.

Vorian fought for vengeance. For all that was taken from him; for all he wanted to be but never was; for a new future for himself; for Arthur leaving him alone to suffer in his shadow… for a symbol he believed would make him shine.

However, Arthur’s resolve was the strongest, or maybe it was his milky blade. _Dawn_ had created so many notches in Vorian’s blade that he could not fight any longer.

Raw grief overcame Arthur at the realisation that he truly was the chosen Dayne.

He halted the fight when Dawn sliced through and shattered the remainder of _Never Surrender._ He had bested him, and all that was left to do was end it, and just like the first time, his hands trembled.

“Fetch another.” Arthur instructed.

Only then did he notice the audience of his men around them, witnessing the end of the battle of Daynes.

Vorian picked a discarded blade and hobbled up. He was completely destroyed, and looking into his teary green eyes, Arthur knew he was done.

“It’s that white sword of yours I want,” Vorian choked out, despite the resignation in his expression.

His mask sewn with envy, resentment and vengeance fell away, and in emerald eyes he saw his brother, the one he had learned to hold a sword with, the boy that taught him to laugh when his own brother would not – too much like their father.

“Please.” He begged so quietly he strained to hear it.

Arthur looked down into pleading green eyes and came to a devastating realisation. Vorian wanted his end, had probably wanted it for far longer than Arthur would ever know.

“Then you shall have it, _Ser_.”

Guilt swirled in his stomach because as much as it was Vorian’s own fault they found themselves here, Arthur knew he was also at fault. Afterall, he had set his path.

_‘Be ruthless brother. I know you will do and become something great. Let that be your vengeance and one day the entire realm will recognise the great knight that is as worthy as Sword of the Morning.’_

Vorian had been envious and revered him simultaneously. These were the monsters Arthur had created in his defiance of the gods. The sons of Dayne.

Within a few manoeuvres, spinning and turning and striking, at long last _Dawn_ was pressed harshly against his chest.

Vorian’s hands joined Arthur’s on the hilt of their ancestral weapon with little resistance.

“I wish it did not have to be this way-” Arthur confesses.

“The gods are not much interested in fairness, little Art. There is little balance between what we deserve and what we receive.”

Vorian pulled his teeth back, beyond the permanent scarred grin, and smiled genuinely for the first time. Arthur’s heart ached for it.

“My son-”

“Will want for nothing and will know love and acceptance,” Arthur reassured.

Vorian nodded and began to pull the blade into his chest.

“You were formidable, and none shall ever forget the Smiling Knight… and I shall never forget my _brother_.”

 _Dawn_ pierced Vorian’s chest in one swift thrust.

Agony tore through Arthur witnessing his last moments, as blood gurgled in his throat, and he released shortening staccato breaths.

“I live… I die… I am Fallen and-” He slumped forward with a final breath and slid down the fine cutting edge of _Dawn._

“Reborn,” Arthur finished.

Pools of his blood dribbled around the hilt of the now crimson blade, and it seemed to hum with satisfaction. Arthur felt the world tilt as his knees drove into the dirt with the realisation of what he had done. His entire body shook, and an indescribable pain soared through him in the wake of devastation. His mother was dead. His brother was dead at his hands. 

He was battered and exhausted and broken in ways he could have never imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would love to know your thoughts on this chapter!


	46. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confessions are spoken between husband and wife which threaten the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, its has been a while! Thank you as always for the great comments and encouragement. Just to say I have been back through the entire story and changed a few chapters and events, it is all relatively the same but it is a much better story now. Not absolutely necessary to read from the beginning but the later chapters might make a difference. 
> 
> Thanks for hanging in there! 
> 
> \- Elia

The armistice drawn between royal husband and wife in the Great Sept of Baelor lasted all of a single moon; really only a few days considering they spent majority of it apart. The bargains made did little to ease the pressures on their shoulders, and even when Elia’s womb quickened again no true peace was found. 

The cracks of their façade revealed themselves quickly. Not but a day after Rhaegar’s return to Dragonstone, following the Kingswood Brotherhood’s ambush, did he initiate a new battle.

“You put yourself in danger, my lady.” He confronted her.

Elia was under no illusion that he genuinely worried for her. His words may have said one thing, but his tone said another.

“You don’t know of the things which you speak, husband.” She countered.

Elia never expected to have such a conversation, not when he should have been relieved that they lived to tell the tale; and particularly not when it was his actions that placed a target on her carriage in the first place. There was no appreciation of her sharp intervention that likely saved them all, including the children he so callously cautioned her with.

“I know that you stepped out of that carriage and left the daughter you claim to care so much about unprotected, risked your own safety and that of our unborn son.” He accused with that cold translucent stare she was quickly becoming accustomed to.

As he settled into the chair opposite hers, she understood this was to be an arduous conversation.

“Had you paused but a moment with your payment arrangements to the Whent’s, as I suggested, then none of it would have happened at all.”

Elia’s words struck a nerve with him and he narrowed his eyes at her coolly.

“Was it not _you_ that set me to purpose?”

Elia released a humourless laugh, she found it no surprise that this too was her fault.

“I informed you of the dangers of pushing your plans inside the King’s walls instead of manoeuvring from the safety of Dragonstone. We are lucky it was the Brotherhood that intercepted those jewels, and not-” Elia said slowly, enunciating every word, her own annoyance building.

“Yes, yes you were right about everything Elia, and yet it still remains that you put our future in danger to save your dearest Ashara.” He battled failingly to maintain his voice in its usual soft cadence.

Elia caught his eye, tried to read the truth behind the eyes that she thought probably resembled that of a true terrifying dragon.

“Ashara and _all_ my ladies are my responsibility. You would do well to learn that you serve your subjects should you wish to avoid a Brotherhood resurgence during your reign.” She rebutted defiantly.

“Your first responsibility is to me and our children!” He reprimanded her sharply like a wayward child, and it stirred a fever in the base of her chest which left her pulling hard breaths.

“Don’t you dare act like I would ever forget that. I am carrying your _prophesised_ son! If I could pull him out for you to hold and present to the world right now I would-” Elia’s voice cracked.

She hated explaining herself, especially when she had done everything her husband asked.

She took a deep breath to regain her composure.

“Ashara had no idea of what we carried; she was operating blindly. Was I supposed to allow her to maintain false pretences and let harm, or gods forbid _death,_ come when I was capable of handling it myself?” She asked incredulously.

“YES!” He erupted, bringing a harsh stillness to the room.

His eyes were wide and his jaw clenched unceasingly.

“Yes. That is _exactly_ what you are supposed to do when you are carrying MY heir in your belly!” Rhaegar roared through gritted teeth.

His care for her state of pregnancy only hid so much. She understood with great clarity that his affections for her only extended to the property she carried in her womb, and the basis of his love revolved around what she could provide for him; his promised prince.

Never had Elia imagined as a child herself that her dream of children would trouble her so. She could do no right in his eyes and it was becoming increasingly difficult for him to disguise it. She was not enough when she was just a princess bride, she was not enough when she bore him a daughter, she was not enough even as she carried his son.

He perceived that she had compromised the safety of his son, and that was unforgivable. She saw the resentment swirling in his stormy indigo eyes. She knew the look well, for she saw it reflected in her own eyes in the glass beyond him.

She bit her tongue until she felt the metallic taste of blood fill her mouth. She wanted to unleash hellfire on Rhaegar for making her miserable with his absence and making her miserable with his love. 

“I am NOT a broodmare!” She yelled, overcome with intense indignation.

“Oh don’t pretend you want anything more from me than a queendom!” He bellowed.

The argument was as icy as the air between them. Every word over pronounced, slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air. Their love, if it could be called that, was distorted into a close mimic of hatred; and just as love endured, so would the wall of bitterness that separated them, growing more thorns every day.

He wanted to burn her with his flames, and she wanted to scorch him with her heat.

“You know that is not true. I wanted _you_!” She confessed.

Elia fell to her knees before him. Inundated with it all; the inferno of feelings that was Rhaegar in her heart. A consuming energy of loneliness, and yearning, and disappointment, and resentment.

“I’ve been here waiting and begging for _you._ I’ve given you EVERYTHING, everything you asked… all of my feelings and wants and needs I’ve buried away for you. From the moment we said our vows before the gods I planted myself inside you and I’ve waited to bloom!”

Rhaegar was completely surprised by her confession and she felt the anger dissipate from every of his muscles. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly.

In the stillness, she searched those ever-complicated eyes for something… for anything that might give her heart a measure of peace. When she found no comfort in the indigo storms he had for eyes, she sunk her head into his lap, unshackling all emotions in a heavy breath.

Yet, when he spoke his next words, it was she who was stupefied.

“And I have given you everything I have to give damn it! Elia I-”

She raised her head from his lap and was met with a perplexed expression; as if his words were as much a surprise to him as they were to her.

“I’ve tried- I think- I, I… love you.”

He caressed her cheek gently, wide-eyed and bewildered, and for a moment he appeared so very young, too young to be a King. 

Words left her. She remained captured by his spellbinding eyes, which glistened with unshed tears, and her heart fell silent.

“I…” Elia started and failed.

“Do you have nothing to say? I have poured my heart out to you, will you not tell me what you’re thinking?” He prompted, voice trembling.

It was everything she believed herself to want to hear from him, but instead, her heart hammered uneasily in her chest.

“How can that be true?”

Elia raked her memories for some confirmation of his words and actions. Elia knew love, and there was nothing – no matter how hard she tried to squeeze pieces together – akin to earnest love between them.

“Surely it must,” he muttered.

His eyes desperately scoured her own; searching for answers she could not give him.

Elia knew love, and what she shared with her husband was not that.

“Oh husband…”

Water gathered in her eyes as she stroked his pale cheek.

“…I don’t doubt that what you feel for me, the mother of your children, is something you do not feel for any other.”

Rhaegar followed her words wide-eyed, furrowed brow and downturned lips.

“Do you really imagine me so loveless?”

A sorrow smile tugged at her lips, for she did not blame him for the things he did not feel.

“You may have disappointed my heart, but I don’t believe you heartless. You are dutiful and courteous and polite because it is expected of you. Just as love between and prince and princess is expected in a marriage. But just because you name this love, doesn’t mean that it is.”

Elia did not know if Rhaegar was capable of the love they wanted for their marriage. How could he know what it looked like when his father’s love was the total domination of his wife. Rhaegar was far from Aerys, and very much sympathised with his mother’s suffering, but that did not equate to comprehending how to love from how not to love.

“I admit that I haven’t made it easy on you, that often I’ve considered expectations and duty more important than you. There are things I’ve done which left you lonely and hurt you in ways that I will likely never understand…” 

For the first time, when she looked into his eyes, she saw through to his soul. His admission softened the storm in her heart.

“…but wife, how am I supposed to learn to love you when you an Ashara shaped wall around your heart?”

Again, Elia was confounded.

A torrent of long repressed emotions bombarded her, forcing out a choked sob from deep within.

There was no longer room to bury what was had been long buried. They had danced around it from the very beginning, but now it was out in the open, Elia could not deny it. It was simultaneously true that Rhaegar had been neglectful and irresponsible with care, but she also held him at arm’s length. Although Rhaegar had himself been neglectful, the thing that obscured Rhaegar from Elia most was Ashara. She was the light in the dark and as long as she remained, Rhaegar could only occupy so much of her heart.

She sobbed until she gasped for breath for the reality of what everything meant was utterly devastating. 

“What are you asking me?” She croaked out, head hidden in his chest as he rubbed her back comfortingly.

“Nothing I haven’t asked you before.”

_‘Choose me as your husband… as your equal. If you choose me then we shall have our son, our kingdom and our glory.’_

Elia thought that honouring her end of the bargain meant holding Ashara as she always had. However, now it was not enough to simply refrain from indulging in everything she felt for her; Rhaegar wanted her wholly.

Nonetheless, she could not forget the mistreatment she had endured from Rhaegar; his neglect and manipulations and demands.

“And if I give you all of my heart, how can I trust you will protect it, or that you won’t devour me whole because of prophecy or expectation?” She asked, despite the guilt of betrayal making her blood run cold.

Their war had once again reached stalemate.

Rhaegar was asking for the littlest but most precious thing she had left to give. She was terrified because all she ever did for Rhaegar was give and give, whilst he took and took.

“I cannot promise that I can make you feel as she does, nor can I say that I won’t stumble and fail at times. For now, all I have are my words, and the effort I make to living up to the compromises we made. But in the end, it is up to you to decide if you can trust me.”

He kissed the top of her head, and when she looked up, Rhaenys stood by the door gazing up at her parents in childish curiosity. 

“Mama! Fada!” She exclaimed crawling up to them.

Despite their tears, they both could not help the smiles that came at Rhaenys sunshine. Their daughter pulled them together and affectionately wiped at the tears from both of their eyes with her own sticky chubby fingers, drawing laughs from them both. When her eyes met Rhaegar’s his eyes spoke where his mouth did not. This was the life he would give her if she only submitted.

And when Ashara’s voice drifted into the room, her heart shattered into a million different pieces.

“Rhae-rhae, whereee are you?” Ashara appeared, clearly in the middle of a game.

Her sparkling smile fell when she gauged the atmosphere in the room.

“Apologies, I can return-”

“Not at all, Lady Ashara. I believe I promised the little one a stroll around the gardens.”

Rhaegar shifted out from under Elia, lifted Rhaenys and fled without another word, leaving her to deal with the consequences of his confessions. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	47. Confessions (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia is faced with yet another confession which rocks her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elia

The moment the door slammed shut another wave of emotion overwhelmed Elia; and when the tears came, predictably, Ashara Dayne was there to wipe them away.

“Dry your eyes, Princess, it’s not good for you or the babe to be in such a state.”

She gazed up at the Dayne in anguish, and stared into the eyes that were the right shade of purple; laughing, loving…certain.

“What has happened, my sweet?”

Elia evaded her eyes, too cowardice to speak the truth of what she had done.

“I can’t tell you.” Elia whispered.

Ashara bit her lip, as turmoil ensued behind her eyes, although it did not last long.

“You can tell me anything.”

“Not this.”

Her fingers grazed across Elia’s chin, and the lingering feeling of the warmth was enough to cause her to realize just how cold she was. Ashara was warmth and _home._ Her touch was mesmerizing, soft and gentle but her words were even gentler.

“I love-”

Elia silenced her with a finger upon her lips.

She could not hear it. Everything she knew and wanted. Rhaegar’s confession had silenced her, but this one would destroy her beyond repair. Elia was sure of it.

What was once easy had become severely complicated. The realisation that Ashara was something she _wanted_ , something she craved with every part of her, every bone and all the fleshy parts between, consumed Elia completely.

Looking into her eyes, she was met with a pool of pure and raw emotion.

Ashara caused her heart to dance unlike anyone was ever able to, and instead of hammering like a blacksmith’s anvil, it fluttered and elated her to unknown heights.

“Let me in,” she breathed, pressing her forehead to Elia’s. 

“I hate seeing you this way. Lonely, unloved and afraid. Let me love you where Rhaegar doesn’t, kiss and touch you where he misses…”

Her soft hands clasped Elia’s tightly, her voice barely above a whisper yet her fervour more scorching than dragon-fire.

“…I can _love_ you, Princess. I can bring the joy back to your eyes.”

The words were spoken so quietly that Elia barely heard them, but one look at the half pleading, half fearful look in Ashara’s eyes and Elia knew she did not imagine them.

A hand touched her cheek, a soft, entreating caress that she almost crumbled into, would have if not for the way Ashara’s eyes flickered down to her lips.

Instead, a stab of panic jolted her.

The truth of her heart and turmoil was in front of her. The person she loved was not her husband; not the man she pledged herself to before the gods.

She knew her wants were impossible, and that it would only end in terrible heartache, and yet she desired it more than she could ever want seven kingdoms.

“Don’t,” Elia interjected weakly, placing her hand over Ashara’s to stop its coaxing on her face.

Still Ashara moved towards her. Their foreheads remained in contact but even that was too much. The fear was crippling, it completely overpowered whatever excitement she thought she would feel at such confessions. All the struggle of her marriage to Rhaegar would never compare to the fallout of _not_ loving Ashara – to lose the truest form of love would certainly bow, bend and break her beyond reversibility. 

She could not bring herself to move away.

“Please,” Ashara whispered, reaching up to cradle her other cheek.

“Asha, please, I…I can’t,” her voice tremored.

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

Elia whimpered.

The words hung between them; a precarious challenge she could neither meet nor refuse.

“Do you want me?”

A tear fell.

“Please don’t ask me that.”

Ashara brushed it away, and her lips followed the movement of her fingers leaving a prolonged kiss on her cheek.

And another, closer to her mouth this time.

“Just say yes. Take something for yourself.”

Then, in the second Ashara’s breath ghosted over her lips, to the chagrin of every fibre of her being which still housed a modicum of logic, her resolve shattered.

“Yes.”

A sharp gasp – hers – and Ashara ever-so-gently brushed her lips against Elia’s. It was not fast nor slow, and Elia did not move at all, could not for the debilitating feel of Ashara’s lips moulded to hers, and still the fear remained lodged in her throat.

 _‘This will break you.’_ She thought.

And probably it would, but at the same time it built her up in ways confusing to her, as if the pieces of herself she misplaced since leaving Dorne were being handed back to her, whole and new, in the drag of a warm mouth across her own.

Ashara pulled away and her breath danced against her lips.

“Please kiss me back.”

The shaking plea pulled something deep within Elia’s stomach and she succumbed and pressed hard against Ashara who met her with a new vigour. All she could think as a tongue brushed against her lip is _how –_ how could she ever lose this and survive. 

The kiss was soft at first, but Elia soon felt Ashara’s mouth open under hers and a rush of heat swept through her at the sensation. Ashara kept her ministrations shallow; gentle laps of her tongue that barely made contact and left her chasing for more.

Elia’s eyes remained squeezed shut because she could not face her directly, but her hands grappled on desperately.

Leaning forward, Ashara dared skim her lips across Elia’s neck. She mouthed her way down the hollow of her throat, pressed a lingering kiss there and pulled the skin between her teeth with a gentle bite. Elia felt herself throb at the touch, her body lighting up and felt for the first time what it was to crave.

She kissed Ashara deeper, wet and passionate, and when they finally parted, they gazed at one another dazed and _broken_.

They remained motionless, the air between them thick and alivesomehow in a way it was not before, the pregnant sensation before a storm.

Elia saw the question in her eyes, and like being burnt alive she was reminded of just how excruciating the devastation from such a loss would be.

Then, she was reminded of her precarious position as Elia Crown Princess, and her fears that the ground beneath her could shift at any second and leave her with nothing. Her duty was to her children and her husband. If she betrayed the gods, and the fates, and her husband she had no idea what that could mean for the lives of her children, herself, and even Ashara. That scared her the most.

Just as she had known all these years, preventing her from ever pushing them past the boundaries of no return; entirely embracing loving Ashara was impossible. It existed in the _beyond_ that Elia deeply repressed and had not allowed herself to contemplate for so very long. It was _wanting_ , and _having_ , and _living_ , in a capacity far removed from actualization. A confession was a coup; a kiss, an insurrection; and _romance_ , a revolution. In a life built of concessions, the upheaval of reality in favour of a manifesting beautiful undreamt was nothing short of miraculous.

“I’ve chosen Rhaegar.” She blurted out.

Ashara stared up at her, wide-eyed like Elia had physically stabbed her through the heart.

“Y-you promised.” She spluttered out.

_‘Promise me he will never get in between us, that if there ever comes a choice between him and I, you will choose me.’_

_‘I will choose you until my last breath, and likely beyond then.’_

“I’m so sorry, Asha, I’m truly, deeply sorry,” Elia whimpered, putting forth tentative fingers, searching for her hand.

Ashara crossed her arms defensively, tears spilling from her eyes, and an expression Elia had never seen before. For the first time, Elia was entirely unsure of where things stood between them.

Elia’s lip quivered. She hesitated for a moment before clumsily crawling back to Ashara’s side and gripping her around the waist tightly, crying into the crook of her neck. She trembled in Ashara’s grip when the Dayne pushed her back by her shoulders.

“Elia, please, don’t. I can’t bear it.”

Whether the words were about her embrace or the situation, Elia was uncertain.

“I’m sorry,” she whined.

“You will find someone else that can love you better than I, that can declare it from the tower tops and-”

“No!” Ashara raised her voice, suddenly angry.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

Elia opened her mouth uselessly. Her assurances had felt weak even as she said them.

“Do you even love him?” she asked, sniffling.

Again, words failed her.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, I love you, but that’s not what this is about.”

A small, pained smile graced her features at the confirmation.

“Then why would you choose him over me?” She demanded, although her voice cracked by the last word.

“He is my husband.” She implored.

“A husband that doesn’t make you happy, nor has ever truly tried. One that neglects and abuses you, that makes empty promises and pretends to support you, when I have always loved, encouraged and cared for you wholeheartedly for years.” Ashara’s chest heaved from speaking so quickly.

“My husband has asked for all of me and he can’t have me if-”

“-If I remain by your side.” Ashara interrupted, understanding the implications fully.

Elia swallowed thickly. The silence which descended burned. It melted her insides, and she felt it pool to the bottom of what was left of her heart.

“No- I- I-”

“You want me gone?” Her voice sounded so much like the little girl she met all those years ago in Starfall, and it quietened Elia’s stammering.

The stillness between them was stifling and it was a long time before anyone broke it.

“I don’t want you gone from my side, but perhaps if you found someone else, a- a husband, thenmaybeyoucouldstay.”

Ashara’s eyes widened in total disbelief.

Elia shut her eyes for the pure absurdity of her words because she knew that would never be something Ashara would want.

“You wish me another kept wife like you and Rhaella.” Ashara meant the words to slice at her and they did.

“Rhaegar is not his father.”

“How can you not see what he is doing – he means to bow, bend and break you Elia!”

“Then that is my mistake!” She snapped, surprising them both.

“And it is the choice I-” her voice faltered.

“It is the choice I have made…” she forced the words out, despite the way it seemed every part of her body involved with ejecting it out, opposed it.

“…I’m sorry.”

“Did you even fight for me?” It was a question and an accusation.

“It would only hurt us both more,” Elia explained.

In the end, Ashara nodded in acceptance, although her eyes said another thing.

Elia tensed when she moved closer, and gently wrapped her in an embrace. Despite herself, Elia pulled her closer. She whimpered at the contact. It was a pleasant and bitter sensation simultaneously. Things between them would change, but she had always cherished the physicality of their relationship. She enjoyed the sense of contentment when she was in Ashara’s arms, the feeling of love and safety. Thus, knowing the physical aspect of their relationship would perish the most, Elia allowed herself to tightly grip onto the back of Ashara’s gown, holding her for what she wondered could be the last time.

Even after crying, Ashara looked so lovely. Her cheeks were rose-coloured and trails of dried tears were visible against her golden skin. Her lips were pink and swollen from the constant worrying on them. And her eyes, her beautiful violet eyes, shone sadly surrounded by their dampened lashes.

Elia’s lip quivered as she spoke, “I'm sorry for hurting you. I want you to know whatever comes from this does not mean I’ll ever stop loving you.”

She took stronger grip of her hands, and Ashara stared back at her so genuinely it almost made Elia fall in love all over again.

“My sweet Elia, if you believe for a second that I will leave you suffering and alone as you are, then you are mistaken. If you don’t have the courage to fight for us, I love you enough to fight for both of us. The only way I will leave from your side is if you tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

Knowing violet eyes dared her, unblinking, unphased.

When she did not respond, Ashara placed a kiss upon her cheek and began fluttering about the chambers like Elia had not said the words that were crumbling down their sanctuary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who are you rooting for - Rhaegar or Ashara?


	48. Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur's grief unfolds in the aftermath of Vorian's death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: depression, anxiety and suicide ideation mentioned. 
> 
> Arthur.

** Spring **

Spring had come to Westeros, yet inside the walls of Dragonstone, it remained icy winter. Arthur did not know where it all went wrong, but somehow the tethers of love and trust were broken between all that inhabited the island. Each of them transformed into people they no longer recognised. Rhaegar embodied the role of a would-be king entirely, while Elia donned the black robes of a meek Targaryen wife. If Elia’s light dimmed, Ashara’s was snuffed out almost completely; consumed by heartache, she became a true Purple Lady – and Arthur, armoured his heart, cut off the final tethers of naivety and morphed into his moniker, _Steelstar_.

One battle changed everything. All Arthur once thought solid ground shattered open and swallowed him whole, leaving him descending in the wake. Arthur was reborn as something dark and deadly in the new season.

Where he was once revered as Sword of the Morning, now he was worshiped as the slayer of the Brotherhood, the _worthy_ knight fit for Dawn. Yet, his glory did not disguise the truth from himself, he was the gods chosen monster.

Long after the scars on his body healed, the wounds inside still bled profusely, and he wondered how long he could sustain until all life drained from him. He functioned on duty alone; duty as the Kingsguard to the Iron Throne, no matter who sat upon it.

He was filled with frozen fury which permeated to every part of his body and caused a stiffness in his every movement. Often, when he gazed at his reflection, he saw the image of his father staring back; a tongueless failure.

If he was Ser Waters, Ashara was Lady Dayne, the version of her they knew in their childhood; dangerously emersed in melancholy. However, where Arthur’s first duty was once his sister’s wellbeing, now, with burning resentment shielding his heart, he left her to descend into darkness alone.

 _‘You sister, your duty.’_ The first instructions he was given when Ashara was born. He was barely two years of age, but he never forgot the words.

‘ _My sister, my duty.’_ He had repeated, feeling so young and unprepared as she stared up at him with violet eyes holding nothing but trust.

He never asked for the responsibility, and she had weighed nearly nothing when his mother laid her in his arms but, she was now a burden too heavy to carry.

Ashara betrayed him when she lied and schemed, sided with the gods, and lead him to his destruction as kinslayer. For Arthur there was no greater dishonour than spilling the blood of kin. He would hate the gods forever for such a fate, and he could not forgive Ashara her part in it, as irrational as he knew it was. His heart was black and cold, and it only made sense to him that he would forsake more vows to punish himself.

For Ashara’s punishment, he served retribution worthy of the candidate. He punished her with silence. A cruel treatment for only he and their brother, Aethan, knew of the damage their father’s silence caused; first in emotional distance and then with his eventual abandonment. He wanted her to suffer the same way he suffered. Although, in the desolateness of his anger, Arthur wondered if that was how she felt all those years ago, when it was _he_ who betrayed her, and left her broken.

He no longer recognised himself, for he only ever understood himself through duty, and where Vorian’s death was the Sword of the Morning’s greatest failure, he was lost to himself.

Were it not for Elia’s command that he tend to Ashara, where she could not, he would have remained firm in his tormenting.

He located Ashara in her chambers one morning, beginning her day with a sweet Dornish wine, as was often the case, Wylla informed him, upon his arrival. 

“You are no good to anyone like this.” Arthur scolded.

His address conjured up surprise, although when she searched his eyes, she withdrew back into herself. If it pained him to see her this way, the vivid flashbacks of the sword he pushed through his brother’s chest ached more.

“I’m _no_ good in any state,” she retorted reaching for the flagon by her bedside.

“Pitying and drinking yourself into oblivion is no achievement. Elia-”

“Elia has chosen Rhaegar _fucking_ Targaryen and has no concern over what I do.” Ashara spat, filling her empty goblet, and emptying its entire contents after.

Arthur stared at her long and hard. He saw his mother in her violet orbs, and it took him back to his childhood. He remembered the many days and nights he stationed outside his mother’s door, riddled with anxiety, and praying for her to rise out of the melancholic spells which stole her from her children. It stirred something itchy and overwhelming in his chest. Whether it was anger at Ashara or himself, he could not decipher. 

“You must accept her choice...”

The rift between the two women was the first thing he noticed upon his return to Dragonstone. Ashara was frequently absent from Elia’s side and there was a new affection between the royal couple. The time of girlhood was officially over, and duty made broken people out of them all.

If Arthur was honest with himself, he would admit to sympathising with her heartache; only he understood what it was to love Elia and not be able to have her. However, his sympathies were eclipsed by distain. 

“…Move on or leave.” His spat with ice in his tone.

Her face contorted in horror before devastating heartbreak washed across her features.

“All these days of nothing, despite every apology I’ve attempted to give you and that’s all you have to say to me?”

She wanted to address the avoided issue between them and that stirred a slew of repressed and volatile emotions. Where he had managed to punish Ashara with silence for so many moons; now, he burned to yell and scream at her. He clenched his jaw to tether him to restraint. 

“I am only here because she ordered me here.”

He was being intentionally cruel, and when he saw the pain it inflicted, there came no satisfaction from it. 

“You must truly hate me,” she whispered.

He answered her with silence. For he knew he could never hate her, but he was resolute in his own descent to darkness.

Eventually, a familiar voice interrupted the uncomfortable stillness between them.

“How can he hate you?” Aethan Dayne interrupted, appearing at the door.

“Arthur loves you more than anyone, Asha.”

They had been awaiting Aethan and the rest of the Dornish houses to arrive before setting out to Harrenhal. Their brother’s arrival was sooner than expected, and the joy of seeing Aethan, was overshadowed by the growing battle of emotions Arthur attempted to keep at bay.

Ashara looked back to Arthur for confirmation or denial of the statement.

The room grew thick with tension. The magnitude of the wrongdoing was greater than any of the past, and it was evident that this conversation would make or break them eternally.

“And she loves you, do not allow your grief to cloud you to that,” Aethan repeated, addressing Arthur directly. 

The truth of the statement burst open the flood gates of emotions he spent months trying to bury.

“Love?” He questioned.

“She has managed to do the one thing no one else has the ability to do... she ripped my heart out.”

The stoic knight façade began to crumble revealing the broken man beneath.

“She betrayed me and sullied my hands with the blood of OUR kin – Vo-”

His voice cracked and the name he began to say never left his lips. Instead, he sighed deeply, and released a breath through gritted teeth.

“I am a kinslayer and the realm rewards me for it. The Sword of the Morning, whose chapters will tell tales of false glory. I am ruined…”

He turned to her then, fighting the tears which threatened to fall.

“…and you call that love?”

His words were received like a physical blow, but he was blinded by the unabating pain inside him.

Aethan reached for him in attempts to comfort, but he pulled away, afraid to fall apart more than he already had.

“Arthur.” Ashara called gently.

He refused to face her, afraid what the suffering in her eyes might do to him. 

“Brother, I’m sorry.”

The apology fell to deaf ears for he was overwhelmed by the anguish he felt.

“I shouldn’t be surprised, right?”

He voiced what he believed they were all thinking. No one, except Vorian, ever understood his devotion to finding his cast-out brother’s redemption. Even in their last moments together, despite everything, he had held hope. For Vorian was right when he called Arthur out on his reasoning so long ago.

_‘All your effort is about your failure. You did not fail me, you failed yourself. From the beginning you have known deep down you are not truly worthy... because if the monster – the unworthy brother – can be redeem, then there is hope for you too.’_

“Vorian was always an envious creature, becoming a bandit seemed like the natural path for him. And because of my actions, he became a monster because he chased the impossible hope of worthiness and glory. This is the end he deserved, right? I shouldn’t...”

He trailed off and buried his face in his hands.

“Shouldn’t what?” Ashara prompted.

“I know that you think my anguish and tears are wasted…”

He laughed bitterly.

“I mean, after all he did to me, to _you_ , the way he disgraced the name of House Dayne, coveted a sword never meant for him, made an existence out of hurting people-”

“Yet, he was still your brother.” Aethan interrupted, realisation dawning.

Aethan sighed deeply.

“My little brother, always running around believing you can save everyone.” He commented.

Even as a boy, he quested to rescue and revive injured animals. He never knew then that he would spend the rest of his life doing it. 

“I truly believed that I could save him. That if I just protected him one last time, then maybe he would realise just how low he had sunk over a stupid sword, and think about turning his life around. That...maybe he and I could at least bury the hatchet and walk away on decent terms.”

He shook his head, a hollow smile crossing his face.

“We would never become friends, not like before, but he was _family,_ it would have been nice to rectify at least one thing that went wrong in Starfall. Maybe he could leave us all behind and find a land to call his own somewhere else, you know?”

He poured his heart out about the brother who gave him nothing but torment throughout his life. The same brother that resented, had no problems fighting against him, and would have gladly seen his end. The brother he watched turn into a twisted creature and ended up having to put down himself.

“I never wanted to have to _kill_ him.”

And then the tears fell, Arthur’s body trembled with quiet sobs. To his surprise, Ashara was closer than he knew, and flinched when she immediately wrapped both arms around him, held him tightly, and for a moment, he had missed her so much that he succumbed and buried his face in her shoulder.

“Oh Arthur,” she cooed. 

He remained silent for a moment, breathing deeply, his shoulders trembling.

“It was not your fault.”

Those were the wrong words, as it did little to alleviate his own guilt, but instead, served to remind him of her involvement in Vorian’s death; and his fury grew tenfold.

He remembered the way she had spun her honeyed tongue and lied. She told him nothing of the challenge; glory or kin, and only commanded him to put the Brotherhood down.

Arthur had not been so angry with her until he saw the resignation in Vorian’s face before he met Dawn. Vorian was ready to die and knew his day had arrived, but when he saw Arthur, and his face fell, Arthur came to realise, it was because he never truly hoped for it to be at Arthur’s hand. Arthur was not the villain Vorian believed him to be, in the same way Vorian was not the villain Arthur believed when he rode for the Kingswood.

In his own twisted way, Arthur knew Vorian believed himself chivalrous.

Had Vorian truly meant his dare, Ashara’s deceit would have seen him kinslayer twice over, by forfeiting saving Lady Dayne for the glory of defeating the Kingswood Brotherhood.

He stepped out of her embrace sharply.

He finally stared at Ashara, wanting her to see what she had done.

“You’re right. It’s not my fault… it’s yours.”

It was the first time he outright accused her, and it shook her.

“I-” She stuttered.

“Arthur, he gave her no choice. You cannot forget all the bad he did.” Aethan explained, where she failed. 

“And she gave me no choice. She would have seen me kinslayer twice over. How can you forgive her so easily when she disregarded the life of our mother?”

“You and I both know our mother failed her. You cannot blame her for where all of us failed.” Aethan countered, reminding him of his own failure.

“But I _must_ blame her, don’t you see?”

He stared wide-eyed at them both, imploring them to comprehend the depth of his pain.

“Mother still lives, which means he tried to save _me_. He did not want me there when the final battle commenced.” He explained.

The look of surprise and utter disappointment which settled on Vorian’s face when Arthur stepped out of the shadows was unforgettable. He still saw it as clear as day in his memories.

“What if that means he really had changed, and I killed him for nothing?”

“How was anyone supposed to know?” Aethan queried.

“I would have known!”

“Art, I did what I did because I love you, I know you might feel like -”

“Do you?” He exploded.

His vision blurred as a fire curled in the pit of his chest. His brain was bombarded by the memories of those final moments, looking into the eyes of the brother that taught him to hold a sword, and how it had been his blade that ended his life. He saw no reason, and was hounded only by the grief, and worse, relief. The memories weighed down on him but instead of breaking even more, his heart turned ice cold and slunk into the shadows as his emotions took total control. The flames in his crawled through his veins and took over the rest of his body. The term anger hardly described the inferno that consumed him then.

“Do you know what it’s like to feel your brother’s blood staining your blade and hands and face? To know what it is to have been the destroyer of your own House, the very same house you were _rewarded_ to protect?”

Arthur could not control himself, even as fear washed across his sister’s features.

Without warning, he yanked her closer, forcing her eyes to meet him.

“Do you _?!_ ” Arthur roared.

His fingers coiled around her wrist tightly. Waves of fury rolled off him as the blood rose to his cheeks.

“Brother!” Aethan reprimanded.

“Tell me, Asha, did you do this to hurt me, to pay me back for failing you all those years ago?”

It was a thought that he had trouble quietening on so many sleepless nights. 

“No…” she struggled in his grip.

“ _Neve_ r.”

Between all three of them, they tussled for control, as Aethan tried restraining him.

“ _Liar!_ You wanted to punish me, say it!”

“No, I–”

“Arthur have you lost your mind!” Aethan attempted.

“Say it!”

Aethan again failed to separate him from Ashara, for the strength in Arthur’s grip and in his rage.

“Arthur, _stop!_ You're scaring me!” She yelled.

“Admit it, you wanted me as broken and ruined as you, Ashara Dayne – soiled, selfish, unlovable and determined to bring misery to everyone around her!”

His nails pierced her skin, and he was so far removed from the man he once was it made him angry and disgusted in equal measure. 

It was not until Aethan threw a punch that caused him to stagger back did they disconnect.

Arthur froze, shame washed through him, and in that moment, he was more afraid of himself than he had ever been.

“I-”

His mouth opened and closed uselessly.

“You want to know why I did what I did? Fine.”

Her tone was cold, and he could barely face her after the monstrous way he had behaved.

“Part of it was for myself, I won’t lie. When Vorian and his men ambushed us. Me, Elia and young Rhaenys. He made me feel like that powerless little girl that couldn’t save herself from what Igon did. I hated him for making me feel that way again…”

Arthur gazed up at her then, for whilst he blamed her, truly, he blamed himself. 

“…But, mainly, I did it for you. If you did not deal with the Brotherhood, the King was going to have you killed. I heard uncle Lycian conspiring with Lord Varys about ‘Rhaegar’s secret army’; and because the bandits took jewels from us, they believed it was payment to kill Aerys. The Brotherhood asked for you specifically Arthur, it’s not a farfetched assumption that you were working with them. I made a decision that kept you alive… so, tell me again that I don’t love you.”

“What if I didn’t want that?” he whispered, all rage expended, and only debilitating emptiness left in it’s wake. 

It was a dark thought, but not a lie. He fantasied about death more than he could admit, he was stuck in a constant state of wanting to kill himself or everyone around him. Dawn had bought bloodlust he could never have imagined. Not for the mere sake of blood, but for some warped idea of peace. 

He would never attempt taking his own life, for the fear he might fail at that too, and face the humiliating consequences.

“I don’t regret what I did to protect your life. I would not live in a world without you in it. A choice between the mother who never protected us, the cousin who terrorised us and the brother who always put me first was an easy choice to make. It pains me that you hurt so terribly, but I will always choose you dear brother.”

Arthur nodded in understanding once he digested all she said.

The confession was not what he expected. He understood why she did what she did, but it did little to subside the anguish. He did not know what was the way forward for them because the sister that was once the light of his life, had caused a pain so deep he could scarcely breathe.

Stillness surrounded them as they sat devastated by the truths aired.

“Do you remember what father used to tell us every time we argued or fought?” Aethan interrupted the quiet.

Their father had never allowed them to sleep without forgiving each other. 

“ _’Forgiveness is the strength in love,’_ ” Arthur quoted, remembering his words.

None of them ever really understood their father because he spent most of his time with his mouth clamped shut—but when he spoke about love and family, they listened, particularly because he was otherwise so _empty_. The memory left his heart aching.

“I want your forgiveness, Art.” Ashara reached across and touched his hand.

Nausea swirled through him when he saw the forming bruise on her wrist.

“What can I do to fix this – _us_?”

“I need you to help me.” He admitted, voice small and almost child-like.

She gazed at him heartbroken, and once again opened her arms to him.

Tentatively he approached, eyeing the bruise his last contact with her caused. Ashamed of the hurt he had inflicted on her, both physical and emotional, before he fell into the embrace, he raised her wrist and kissed the bruise apologetically.

They stood embraced, both broken and confused by the journey of their conflict. Aethan patted them each before leaving them alone.

“Asha, I’m sorry. I never truly blamed you. I used that as an excuse to mask my own guilt. I know Vorian did terrible things, I know it, but I still cannot help how guilty and terrible I feel… I’m broken.”

He felt her nod against his shoulder.

“Brother, I once told you that there would come a time when you would need me as your safety and shelter when your storm broke. In this life I owe you more than I have given. But I want to try. I want to show you what you have taught me, and I will cast aside my own heartbreak and melancholy to pick you up and put the pieces back together with tender love, as you once did. I am sorry for my part in your pain, truly. I am so sorry.” She spoke with such fervour it bought the first inkling of peace within his chest.

With her words, like she said, he felt a piece of himself returned to him. He was utterly confused how he could ever have thought she bore him ill will, and that he had sought to punish her for it.

The tears which once fell in bitterness, now fell in relief. 

“Maybe one day, when Rhaegar and Elia sit the throne, we might go far away from this place and find something different for ourselves.” He whispered.

It was an impossible fantasy of course, his vows were lifelong, and there was little chance that Ashara would ever leave Elia’s side, but he could imagine.

He never expected her to answer, but when her voice came, the words were a surprise.

“Maybe one day.” She agreed. 

Spring had come for the Daynes, and for the first time in the new season, Arthur saw dawn's light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything hurts, I'm sorry I had to put Arthur though that!  
> Let me know your thoughts :)


	49. Fools And Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara confronts heartache and love in the crumbling walls of Harrenhal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara.

Since long before Ashara’s flower blossomed, she knew that love made fools of men. There were many that came and went, fell over themselves and professed love for her pretty eyes and tinkling laugh. Even a Dornish prince had played the fool for her and sworn off marriage, and instead pursued fleeting desires.

Ashara pitied the lovesick men which wept, whimpered and raged. Many there were that did the stupidest of things in the name of this incomprehensible emotion. However, she never expected that she too would be made a fool by love.

Elia broke her promises and chose Rhaegar. When she uttered the rejection, Ashara literally heard her ribcage crack from the explosion beneath her chest. She had finally conjured up the confidence to confess long-hidden feelings and Elia gave a response she never foresaw. Her sweet Elia, the one she trusted above all others, and the one that loved her like none. The irony was not lost in that, at the beginning, she had wanted to apologize in advance because she thought it would be her to accidently break Elia’s heart and run, just like she always had. Yet, in the end, it was Elia who ripped her heart out and abandoned her.

It was a rejection that united old demons with new; some with Lady Dayne’s voice, as reminder of her cursed nature _._ Worse still were the terrors with Igon’s face, and new torments of her blood-stained hands from her part in Vorian’s death and Arthur’s suffering.

It was only in Elia’s abandonment that Ashara realised she never healed what was broken inside of her. Elia was the tourniquet to her being, and without her, she was left bleeding on the cold, hard ground. 

Nonetheless, Elia had not been able to say she did not love her and Ashara frantically clutched onto that final tether. She was determined to stay true to her word, and fight for them where Elia could not. She knew enough about Elia’s marriage to know that the decision was at Rhaegar’s goading because of pressures from the realm. Although she was clever, Elia lost sight of herself as a Targaryen princess and Ashara would not allow her to be entirely engulfed in dragon-fire. Thus, she pretended to take the rejection in her stride and fell to the shadows as Elia doted on her husband; waiting for when her hand might reach out for her again.

As the days went by, Elia grew more distant and unlike herself. Nagging thoughts questioned whether her place in Elia’s heart could maintain as things progressed with Rhaegar. Afterall, Elia broke the vow that had strengthened Ashara enough to stay at her side as she watched her marry another. 

Most concerning was Ashara’s inability to gain private audience with Elia. She could only ever see the Princess with the other ladies-in-waiting or in Rhaegar’s presence. Without her sun, Ashara wilted with no hope of dawn and succumbed to a welcoming desolateness, which nurtured her heartbreak and self-loathing. 

First, came an agonising emptiness which left her powerless to rise from her bed. Then, a volatile rage she unleashed on anything in her proximity. Next, she chased an oblivion in endless goblets of wine. Lastly, came the venomous desperation, which had her acting out for Elia’s attention in the most foolish ways.

After a long confinement, when Elia had not come chasing as usual, Ashara returned to court like a hurricane, on the centre stage of the Realm’s biggest and most extravagant tourney.

Lord Whent’s tourney at Harrenhal attracted nobility from every hill, river and rock in Westeros. From the sour lords of winter to the prickly roses of the Reach; to the stags of Storm’s End, to the old keeper of the Mountains of the Moon. Even Mad King Aerys, looking haggard and unhinged, crawled out of the dragon’s den for the first time in years, much to Rhaegar’s dismay. However, noticeably, the lions of the Rock were nowhere to be seen, except the newly knighted golden cub, Ser Jaime. 

The tourney was as much a political event as it was an athletic melee. Treason was in the air, and the Great Houses of Westeros had more in mind than jousting, archery, and merrymaking. Ashara knew of the great efforts Rhaegar and Elia underwent to secretly fund the tourney in guise of calling a Great Council and initiating Rhaegar’s ascension to the Iron Throne.

After the opening ceremonies, when the dancing walls were hung with magnificent tapestries, each emblazoned with the symbols of the Great Houses, the psychological games began. Aerys made his own power plays and officially named Ser Jaime the youngest knight in kingsguard history. A clear spite at his Hand, thereby claiming the heir to the Rock his own.

Nonetheless, Ashara had plots of her own in mind. Driven by foolish attempts of attention seeking and _many_ a cup of heady Dornish Reds, Ashara dragged Prince Oberyn up after a long evening of introductions and tedious niceties. 

“Now, come. Let us show these stiff Northerners how to dance properly, my prince!”

Always ready for mischief, Oberyn set aside his wine before Ashara swept him to the centre of the dance floor.

Ashara expected the many eyes which stalked them, the distrust for the Dornish and their strange ways was something she was long accustomed to. Yet, there was only one pair of dark orbs Ashara cared to attract.

She took one of Oberyn’s serpents and waved to the musicians, who picked up their instruments and began to liven up.

The technicoloured red and blue serpent slithered up her arm and down her exposed mid riff.

Ashara was a foolish maid in love, recklessly seeking the love she was deathly afraid of losing. When she gazed up at the princely couple, seemingly besotted with one another, she knew she would sooner withstand Elia’s blazing rage than her careful distance. 

She brought the serpent’s head close to her face and stuck out her tongue as its forked one did the same. The music swelled and she began to mirror its movements seductively as Oberyn stalked around her gyrating form. She moved with a slow and sensuous purpose as the snake coiled around her and slithered into Oberyn’s grip. Her body wove itself lithely in tandem with the growing rhythm of the seductive beats.

To dance was her freedom, to dance was to become a shooting star, and in the crumbling ruins of Harrenhal, Ashara came alive for the first time in so long.

Her movements flowed with a dazzling grace that took away the breath of every person in her audience. She felt her soul become one with the music and she unleashed her emotions into the dance; heartbreak, jealousy, longing _._ In that moment, she needed to dance as badly as she needed to breath. She wanted to shine and be seen in the darkness.

When she noticed that Elia’s attention remained on her husband, despite the audience she drew, Ashara grew more desperate. She was determined to draw such spectacle that Elia had to do something. _Anything_. It was not a well thought out strategy, merely a frantic attempt to salvage what had been shattered between them. 

When the song ended and the applause came, Ser Barristan the Bold, stepped out another fool in love.

“Lady Ashara, I must insist on the honour of dancing with you. I am no great dancer, but I am certain your talents will more than make up for my lack of skill.”

She nearly declined until she caught Elia curiously watching her. She took it as a small victory and laughed loudly, throwing her head back.

“Ser Barristan, the honour is _all_ mine.”

She took his offered hand, and it was the first of many. She danced with an entire host of men; princes, knights, and lords alike. Ashara was in her element, gliding close to whichever man she held close in her long arms and dared hope to see vexation in Elia’s expression.

She chased Elia and they chased her. 

The men would take and so would she, for it was clear love was not meant for Ashara. These men would flirt and dance, perhaps even take her to bed, or to wed, but she knew none of them meant to see _her_ beyond the violet eyes and fair golden skin. The only eyes which had ever seen her were so dark she could scarcely breath sometimes, and now they were blinded by fire.

Despite the sparing glances, Elia made no movement towards her, and Ashara descended further. 

She left behind willing partners looking forlorn as she bounced to her next conquests. She flirted outrageously and was vitalised by the scandalised looks.

She was entirely content to continue her path of self-destruction until she saw dark grey eyes watching her. She noticed them follow her as she danced with Barristan, Prince Lewyn, Ethan Glover and Jon Connington. Always watching yet without hungry lust as some, or barely disguised disgust as the others.

She knew he was a Northman from the rigid way he sat between the boisterous young storm lord Robert Baratheon and his patron, old Jon Arryn, the Lord of the Vale.

Her curiosity fell away when from the corner of her eye, she saw Elia gaze over at her before whispering something to Arthur, and when he walked over to her, she felt victorious in her rebellion.

Yet, those hopes were quickly dampened.

“Did she send you here?” She asked.

Arthur sighed and looked at her apologetically.

“No.”

Elia did not want her. Ashara feared that this new meek woman that was Rhaegar’s wife would never love her like Elia of Dorne had.

Were things the way they once were, Elia would have risen from her seat and joined in the merriment long ago, propriety be damned. Ashara yearned for Dornish nights and Rhoynar rhythms, of small soft hands and blood orange scented kisses.

Ashara was taken out of her reverie and reminded of exactly where she was. On the dancefloor of a crumbling castle with near enough every pair of eyes on her except the ones she wished for.

Arthur gently caught her hand.

“Sister, dance with me,” he prompted. 

She knew Arthur’s intentions were to soothe her suffering as he always had. For the pleading in his expression, she accepted the request and rocked with him to the slowing tune.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but you will learn to breathe again without her,” he explained interrupting the stillness between them.

“I don’t _want_ anything without her.” She answered petulantly, cursing herself for sounding like a spoilt child.

She felt more childish when he leaned back slightly and peeped down at her seriously.

“Ashara, you have to learn to live for yourself, not for anyone else, not even for her. For so long you held love with an iron grip but at arm’s length. You could have had your sweet Elia long ago. Inevitably, it would still have ended the same way because duty was always going to call for the prized sun of Dorne…”

His words stirred something uncomfortable inside her. They were difficult truths to accept. She made many excuses for why she waited so long to reveal the depth of her feelings. It always came down to her own inadequacy and inability to feel deserving of love.

“…You _deserve_ love, Asha. Just because it no longer resides where you believed it to, does not mean it is not out there for you,” he finished. 

Deep down she still felt like the neglected child that begged for scraps of her mother’s attention – like the abused girl that was sullied long ago.

It was an arduous and complicated set of issues to settle, but for the first time, Ashara was confronted with the truth.

“I don’t know who I am without her,” she admitted.

“Then perhaps you ought to find out.”

She took a moment and considered Arthur’s suggestion.

She wondered if it truly was time to attempt to move on. It left her chest feeling tight because it was something she never even fathomed to consider before. It was in the unknown to exist anywhere that was not Elia’s side.

Before she could respond, she was swiftly whisked into the arms of another, the charming Brandon Stark. He had made himself as well known as the young storm lord that evening, and it would be a lie to say her eye had not wondered to him during the introductions.

“Lady Ashara,” he greeted with a mischievous smirk and mirth gleaming in his eyes.

She feigned disapproval but continued gliding along with him despite it. 

“The Sword of the Morning will not take too kindly to that, lord Brandon. I fear you may have made yourself a formidable enemy in the lists tomorrow.”

Brandon was not typical of the stony-faced Northmen. He was bold and confident, which she found attractive, although she would never admit that aloud; there was a cockiness to him that raised her defences.

“It’s just harmless fun, why should he make an enemy out of me?” He countered.

He acknowledged Arthur and nodded in respect, although the twinkle in his eye remained.

“You have a sister do you not – how pleased would you be if a man took off with her?”

The smugness fell from his expression momentarily.

“I suppose for her honour, he would become my enemy,” he answered, gazing towards a young dark-haired girl who was in the middle of pouring wine over the head of a boy beside her.

She was a pretty thing, with the same teasing glint in her eyes as Brandon.

“Then what makes you exempt from my brother’s wrath?”

His knowing smirk returned as he peered at her with his grey eyes, and she hated how it made her blush.

“For a start, you think me quite handsome, and you enjoy me.” He winked with a growing grin.

Ashara laughed despite herself.

“And that’s enough to warrant his forgiveness?” She countered.

He shrugged playfully before brushing her hair back from her shoulder, with just the right look of heat in his eyes and moving in so close she could feel his lean body pressed up against her. 

“Then perhaps I ought to give him better reason to make me his enemy.”

She pretended to be indifferent to Brandon’s seduction. It would not do to allow someone with an ego like his know how much power he had. Thus, she refused to lean in or seem too keen.

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

“As are you, Ashara.” He looked pointedly at the men that stood peeved in the wake of her abandonment.

“If you came over to insult me _Brandon_ , you can surely return.” She scolded as she recoiled.

Ashara was not a stranger to rumours, men and women alike often set their tongues wagging over tall tales about her. Unlike Dorne, the rest of Westeros were prude little creatures when it came to pleasures, but she would be damned if the would-be Warden of the North, who had his own whispers of lovers and bastards, would question her integrity.

“My lady please forgive my impertinence. In fact, I truly came here to request a dance of you, with a man far more honourable than me.”

Confusion washed through her, but strangely, she was intrigued. Man after man had taken what they wanted from her this night, and it was odd that one remained reserved.

“That won’t take much… but go on, who is this poor fellow?”

A wide grin spread across his features.

“My young brother is too shy to approach you. Don’t be so hard him. Whilst I was blessed with all the charm in the family, he is good and honourable, a man worthy of your time.” He spoke with pride.

As audacious as Brandon had been, it was evident now that it was act to make his brother appear the better man.

“Very well, but I shall decide that for myself.”

Brandon returned to his table and Ashara was surprised to find that his shy brother was the stiff Northman that had been watching her all night.

Ashara could not help but chuckle endearingly when she saw the younger Stark’s back stiffen and panic wash across his features as Brandon whispered to him.

The young Stark was not as tall as his brother, just of a height with her; he kept his long hair tied back messily, and unlike Brandon, wore simple clothing unadorned with any marks of House Stark.

It would be difficult to guess they were brothers if their features were not so similar, and even then, where Brandon was always smiling, the young Stark already had frown lines across his brow.

“My lady, I thank you for the honour of a dance,” he greeted, inclining his head rigidly, and offering his hand.

She took his hand and led him to the dancefloor.

It was awkward at first, because even at their slow pace, it was clear Stark did not have the grace of a dancer. She rearranged his hands until they were in the correct position, and led the steps, anything to occupy herself from meeting his mystifyingly intense gaze.

“Do you happen to have a name?” She wondered, once they swayed in rhythm to the languid tune.

“I do.” He answered, adding nothing further even as Ashara tilted her head in curiosity.

“You’re not very talkative, are you?”

“If you might give me your name, I shall give you mine.” He said unsmiling.

When she finally met his expectant stare, she saw the beginnings of a smile pulling at his cheeks, and something akin to intrigue flared inside her.

In that moment, instead of seeking Elia, she found herself regarding Stark, questioning if he was not shy at all, but instead, reservedly confident.

“It appears you already know who I am.” She answered with a cock of her brow.

“I would rather get the name from the lady herself than the fame which precedes her.”

Ashara found herself pleasantly surprised by their exchange.

“I am Lady Ashara Dayne, lord Stark.”

“Thankfully, I shall never be lord Stark… I am Eddard Stark, although you may call Ned.”

A teeth-baring grin spread, and his face transformed. She found herself strangely attracted to the quiet wolf.

“Ned.” She said testing out the syllables on her tongue.

The song picked up pace, as did she.

Her feet struck the floor in perfect synchronisation with the building tempo and his pursued with every step. Ned’s grey eyes shone behind the shy expression as they advanced, retreated and pirouetted.

The rapidly enclosing space between them felt electric and burning. There was something she could not explain about this quiet Northman, who stared into her eyes as if he could see past all that she armoured herself with and saw the frightened girl inside. She felt admired, as one might the stars on a clear night.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” She finally asked, fascinated in his unravelling scrutiny of her. 

His answer made the flirtatious grin fall from her face.

“You have danced and laughed quite a lot tonight… But I can’t help by notice, you don’t seem all that happy, my lady.”

Shaken, she abruptly halted her movements.

She remembered the pain in her chest and found Elia across the room, glaring at her with fire behind her eyes. She was confused because this was what she initially wanted, but now she had it, it felt nothing like victory. For with Ned, for just a moment, she put aside her heartache… and _breathed_.

“You’re very perceptive.” She answered, a slow panic filling her.

“I’ve said the wrong thing.” He commented apologetically, noticing the change in her.

She looked up at him wide-eyed, contemplating the stirring emotions inside her.

For reasons unclear to herself, she lurched to kiss him, but he pulled away just as quickly.

Embarrassment filled her and she exploded into blazing anger.

“Is this not what you wanted, Ned – to say you had an easy Dornish wench to your brother and friends?” She spat turning to walk away.

He chased her before she could escape, appearing ahead desperately.

“I meant no disrespect, lady Ashara. I would never dishonour you in such a way, only when I kiss you, I want it to be because you want it, not because you think that’s what I want.” He interrupted.

That he could read her so easily, and was not scared away by it, _terrified_ her. Just like she always did, she crumbled under her fears and lashed out.

“What honour is there in getting your brother to do your courting? I pity you Ned, that’s why I danced with you.”

He flushed in embarrassment, and deep down, Ashara was ashamed for it.

“Then allow me to rectify my actions, may I do something no other has done today?”

Despite her urgent need to flee, she was intrigued.

“Go on.”

“Will you come sit with me, Ashara?”

“What?”

Again, she was surprised by this strange Northman.

“I want to get to know you, is that so hard to believe?”

She carefully maintained a neutral expression. Yet, even in that, he read her disbelief.

“Come on, Ashara, get to know me, take a chance on a fool in love.” He pleaded.

_Love._

The word spun around in her head, and she realised, for the first time, it was something she truly yearned for.

Warmth began to spread through her blood and hammering seized her chest.

“I-I…”

Despite her epiphany, her tongue fumbled in her mouth. She did not know how to articulate such desires and succumbed to old behaviours.

“…I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Without a single glance back she fled, a maid made a fool by love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Starks have finally made an entrance! Let me know what you think?


	50. Let Her Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara and Elia finally reconcile in heartbreaking circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the continued spirit of Valentine's Day... more romance... more angst.

Sleep came at the bottom of a flagon of Dornish Red. When Ashara woke, head aching and nausea swirling, she was so astounded to find Elia perched at the edge of her bed, she questioned if she was still dreaming.

She squinted against her heavy eyelids, taking a moment to focus in the dim light of morning. Moaning, she reached over for another goblet, entirely convinced she was trapped in a beautiful nightmare, and determined to drink away returning worries.

“Do you not think you have had enough? You drank all day and night. I’ve seen men three times your size keel over from half as much,” Elia warned, stilling her hand. 

If she thought she was dreaming, the touch grounded her to reality, and with it, memories of the night’s events returned. Her escape from Ned Stark, the consequent drinking after… and the shenanigans with Oberyn after that.

Ashara then noticed the arm thrown over her waist and the legs intertwined with her’s. Ellaria Sand lay sound asleep beside her and Oberyn beyond her. If she were not so livid with Elia, she might have had the good grace to look regretful.

“It’s my body. I have no husband to _force_ me to behave. I’ll be the one to say when I’ve had enough,” she spat cruelly.

Elia gazed at her with forlorn eyes, not at all unnerved by the venom. Unable to withstand her pity, Ashara stretched for the goblet again. However, in her haste and slight disorientation, its contents spilled over her and onto the bed beneath.

“ _Seven bloody buggering hells!”_ Ashara cursed through gritted teeth.

Where once they may have laughed, neither found humour in her current state; lost and drowning in loneliness.

“What a mess you have made of yourself,” Elia tutted, bringing a cloth to Ashara’s face, wiping at stale saliva and remnants of spilled wine.

Only then did embarrassment begin to set in. Elia’s attention was all she had wanted, and now she had it, she was a blithering sight. 

Ashara snatched the cloth from Elia, too prideful to accept such gentleness from the person that had waged war on her heart.

Elia sighed but did not reprimand her.

“Always using those pretty eyes to have even the sanest people ready to fall on their sword for you…”

It was a feeble attempt to lighten the mood, but Ashara held onto her bitterness.

“…You are as bad as Oberyn,” she jested, gazing over at her dozing brother.

Ashara released a sharp breath that did not quite make it to a chuckle.

“I’m definitely worse.”

“With strange Northmen too – _brothers_ no less – I assume you are aware Brandon is betrothed to Catelyn Tully?”

Ashara groaned and leaned back against her wet pillows. After the fiasco with Ned, she had little desire to think of the Starks. Her night of heavy drinking was in hopes of forgetting all things love-related.

Sharply, Elia’s playful tone dropped.

“And in front of the King and the entire court… I suggest you stop all this flaunting unless you have death wish, Asha.” She warned gravely.

“Maybe I do have a death wish…” Ashara slurred, her eyes closing.

Having Elia so close, after what seemed like years, bought back all the agony she was left with in the wreckage of rejection. She had no idea where things stood between them. Did Elia care for her wellbeing or only her own dignity? Uncertainties turned over and over in her mind, torturing her as she gazed up at Elia.

“…What is it to you?”

“Everything…” Elia whispered, as if she said it loud enough, she might just break.

“…You mean everything to me, my dearest _._ Do you not know that by now?”

She wanted to believe her words, but the cold loneliness she had endured still clung to her bones despite warm words.

“You wished to be free from me, Princess. Now I’m doing just that. Perhaps now you can dedicate yourself to your husband, body and _soul_.” She jabbed.

She wanted to be above petty retorts, but bitterness had seeped into her veins.

“My soul will _always_ belong to you, Asha.”

Elia sounded desperate. Her voice was quiet, like a hurricane only just feeling friction.

Ashara’s heart dropped to her gut, because for the first time, that was not enough. Something with a life of its own had been stirred inside her the night previous and it frightened her.

She studied Elia’s face and wondered if the hurricane was more advanced than she thought.

“How can that be true now?” Ashara asked defeated.

Her façade faded quickly. There was no use, Elia would always see right through it.

“You know, you’re not the only one that suffers from what has happened!” Elia snapped.

Ashara’s bed partners shifted but did not wake. Yet, Elia dragged her out of bed with unexpected power, and led them to the adjoined chambers for privacy.

Ashara, in nothing but a sheet for modesty, stood firm in her accusations.

“It certainly feels like I am the only one suffering, when I am left to watch from the shadows as you dote on a man who doesn’t deserve you.”

Elia released a humourless laugh.

“Despite how it might appear, I’ve fallen apart several times over. I’ve cried myself to sleep every night since I spoke the words that broke your heart-” Her voice cracked and it pulled at Ashara’s heartstrings.

“…I hate myself for it.”

She could see the hurt and guilt in Elia’s expression, feel the longing in strained words. Her fierce front disintegrated leaving them both naked in their heartbreak.

“I’ve missed you,” Ashara admitted, reaching out for her hands despite herself, remembering the lines and bumps and _delicateness_ she dreamt about many nights.

Eventually hands led to a tight embrace. They remained like that for so long they distantly heard the bustling waking of life in the Harrenhal ruins.

“Why was I not enough for you?” Ashara asked the haunting question.

Elia looked up startled, it appeared that thought had never even crossed her mind.

Gently, she bought a hand to Ashara’s cheek and caressed the skin there, almost as if she were committing it to memory. Subsequently, Ashara queried if that was exactly what she was doing, and that this visit was no hello at all, but rather, _goodbye_.

“You were always enough Asha. More than. I wanted to give you the world and this was the only way I thought I could. It was selfish for me to keep you at my side as long as I did, especially when I knew what I knew… what I felt from you.”

 _Love._ They had both confessed it too late.

Elia stood closer, the only thing between them, the protruding bump, reminding them of Rhaegar.

“My life and fate are inexplicably tied to Rhaegar’s and I don’t want you to be as well. I know you can never forgive me for what happened between us. I betrayed your trust, and for that, I can never apologize enough. Worse, you have been more than graceful in your heartache, when I know you have wanted to rage against everything in this world for it. It is the hardest and most painful thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“Then why did you do it?”

She had lost all the passion for her bitterness and burgeoning tears stung.

Elia sighed deeply, a frown settling across her brows.

“I _never_ wanted you to go…” Elia whimpered.

“…I don’t want you to go, even now.”

“But you can’t ask me to stay either, can you?”

She knew the answer, yet she still dared hope for the impossible.

Elia refused to look at her, simply breathed jaggedly through her nose and faced the sky, willing away the water which leaked out silently from the corners of her eyes.

Ashara swallowed the lump in her throat, intently awaiting a response. 

When their gazes met, dark eyes _softened_ and fell to her lips; a sign she was no longer in command of herself.

“I don’t want to make things harder.”

The whisper was a plea.

But her head wavered towards Ashara until their foreheads touched with a stabilizing release. Ashara’s hand found its way to the side of Elia’s face, pressing the two together.

They stayed like that in the dimly lit chamber, centred by their joined axis and finding reprieve in each other, floating in a joined essence.

“This, _pretending –_ is harder.” Ashara begged, succumbing to blazing desires.

She caved and brushed her lips closer to Elia’s. They were met with warm breath tumbling out over them; a strain in it at the sudden proximity.

“It’s harder.” She murmured.

When she felt Elia’s steadying hand firm against her shoulder, preventing her from getting closer, her heart shattered again.

“Asha…”

She heard the consolation in the way she drew out the letters of her name, the way her voice tremored like an apology.

“…I told you. I can’t.”

Elia pushed out something between a sob and sharp breath. 

It took a few moments for her to decipher the meaning and intent of the statement. There was nothing she could do or say, they could never have each other in the way they yearned for.

Ashara wanted to protest, but she realised that perhaps the most loving thing she could do for Elia was to _let her go_.

Instead of protestations, with her eyes glimmering and face spilling over with sadness, Ashara leant forward to press a brief kiss to the corner of Elia’s mouth. It was as close to intimacy as they could have now. Ashara tried not to think too much into it, closed her eyes against the feeling and instead imagined the lips lingering longer, travelling elsewhere.

“I know,” Ashara confirmed.

She would never stop holding a flame for Elia, but she understood they could not continue as they had, gripping on with bleeding fingertips as the world pulled them apart.

“I must maintain my duty,” Elia explained.

 _Duty._ That dirty word which kept taking everyone she loved from her.

“And duty must always come first, yes?”

“For the Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, you know it must.”

“I know,” Ashara repeated, although this time more to convince herself than Elia.

Elia remained in place, her breath warm and gentle against Ashara’s skin. When she pulled away, Ashara shivered. The icy loneliness returning to her bones with a revitalised burn.

Silence gathered as they allowed the implications of their end to settle.

The anger and bitterness and jealousy that had fuelled Ashara into foolishness no longer polluted her mind. Now, all that persisted was a deep sorrow watching Elia close in on herself as cries shook her entire body. 

“Shh…”

“All will be well,” she said, although it tasted like a lie.

“Ashara, I am so sorry.”

Elia clutched onto Ashara tightly like _she_ was the one slipping away.

For a long while, all that could be heard in the tiny room was Elia’s sobs and Ashara’s hushing. Although quiet, the cries were gut-wrenching and there was no missing the anguish.

“How can you be so good to me now?” Elia questioned, pulling back a fraction.

“Don’t you know, you are everything to me, my sweet.” Ashara echoed Elia’s sentiments from earlier.

She gave her a smile sadder than tears and Ashara crumbled from it.

Then, a knock sounded, interrupting them suddenly.

They gathered themselves a moment, wiping at wet faces and sharing a final embrace, although never letting go of one another completely.

“Yes?” Ashara answered, more steadily than she thought herself capable, and creaked open the door.

Stood before her was a vaguely familiar, boyish-looking girl, holding a shield, tailed by a small limping boy wearing a shirt of bronze scales.

“Lady Ashara, I am Lyanna Stark…”

Memories of the previous night returned, and she finally placed the girl’s features; the brown hair, long face and grey eyes of the Starks.

Surprise filled her, and something akin to excitement, although she attempted to keep composed; not solely for Lyanna, but for Elia too.

“…My brother wished me to extend an invite to you.”

Ashara’s expression must have revealed more than she intended as Lyanna corrected her statement.

“ _Ned_ hoped you might attend a walk with him before the contests begin today?”

For reasons unknown to herself, Ashara felt her cheeks fill with blood.

Yet, Elia’s presence behind her was not forgotten, and despite their understanding that all had come to an end, Ashara still felt inclined to hold on. 

A frown graced her features but before she could decline, Lyanna interrupted again.

“He also attempted to come and ask you himself, but you were not present at breakfast and the guards would not allow him in Princess Elia’s camp.”

“How did you two get in?” Ashara wondered.

“The crannogman’s very tall spear and a very small window.” She revealed gazing mischievously at the small boy behind her. 

Ashara laughed despite her reservations.

“So, what do you say to my brother’s request?” She prompted.

“I-” Ashara stuttered, failing to find the words.

However, when she felt Elia squeeze her hand, she understood what it meant.

“Please, my lady. Ned is truly kind and honourable, a rare man found in Westeros,” Lyanna implored.

Whether it was Elia’s silent encouragement or Lyanna’s pleading grey orbs, which reminded her so much of Ned, Ashara was persuaded.

“Tell Ned, that it shall be my honour to accompany him, Lady Lyanna.”

The smile which spread across the young girl’s face warmed even her aching heart, and she was powerless to return the beaming grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loved the feedback from the previous chapter introducing the Starks! It was great to finally start exploring them, let me know if you would like to see more of their involvement in the story?


	51. Love Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ashara confronts emotions stirred by denial of love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ashara.

** Love Me **

The melee was all that was promised. It brought thrilling challenges of jousting, archery, axe-throwing and horse racing. Arthur appeared the front runner, although to Ashara’s vexation, Brandon Stark and Prince Rhaegar offered fierce competition.

However, everything changed when a mystery knight, the Knight of the Laughing Tree, appeared on the lists and defeated the House Frey, Blount and Haigh Knights. Every mouth speculated on the identity of the disguised tiny knight. Ashara had an inkling as to who sat beneath the armour, but her lips remained sealed, especially when King Aerys publicly called for his son to bring the knight fire and blood as reward.

Following the disappearance of the mystery knight, Ashara found herself socializing, despite the strange mood Aerys outburst brought. Yet, she soon regretted joining the merriment when conversations turned to her.

“I’ve heard that Asha has _finally_ settled on a suitor _,”_ Oberyn crowed, as they – Elia, Mellario, Ellaria, Serra Qorgyle and Oberyn– lounged in the designated Dornish section of the Hall of the Hundred Hearths.

Ashara rolled her eyes, despising the attention.

She hated even thinking about her feelings, particularly the undecided emotions she had regarding Ned Stark. Furthermore, having to discuss it with Elia present, made her want to throw something at Oberyn for being so obtuse.

“And I heard you have _another_ Sand on the way, that will be four in as many years, but you don’t hear me talking about it.” She quipped back.

“My daughters are borne of passion…” He said eyeing his newest object of his infatuation, Ellaria.

“…Mayhaps, if all goes well with the quiet wolf, you may have a love child of your own.”

Nausea swirled in the pit of Ashara’s stomach. Having become so attached to Princess Rhaenys her heart had softened to children, but not so much that she longed for her own. Afterall, she had proven herself her mother’s daughter, and knew she was as fit for the task as her own.

“I prefer my passion without screaming children at the other end of it,” she commented bluntly.

Oberyn laughed, picked up Princess Arianne from Mellario’s lap and dramatically whispered in her ear.

“Princess, do you think dear Aunt Asha looks love-struck to you?” He teased, encouraging Arianne to tickle her.

She swatted his hand away and took Arianne into her own lap, finding no humour in his jesting, only mortification; especially as she felt Elia gazing at her curiously.

However, when Arianne started howling, they were all powerless to laugh.

“Your first serious suitor Ashara, how does it feel?” Serra probed.

For unexplainable reasons, she felt _guilty_. Guilty that the quiet wolf roused something new within her. That he stirred anything warm at all felt like a betrayal.

“I would not go so far as to say that, but I’m… curious,” she admitted, not daring to look up.

Elia, who had been noticeably quiet since the topic was brought up, spoke then. 

“So, you like him then?” 

Ned had accompanied her everyday since their meeting. She found he was gentle but intense, quiet yet confident; and a complete enigma to her. He made her feel better where her chest ached with the loss of Elia. At moments, she felt _almost_ healed.

“I don’t know any other man quite like him.”

She shrugged, quelling the uneasiness building within her chest. 

“That’s more than you have ever said about anyone.” Oberyn commented, voice devoid of all former humour.

“I wouldn’t get too excited I’m sure it will pass as all the others. Anyway, he seems too good to be true,” she rushed, feeling a panic building within her chest.

“What if he is exactly as he presents?” Elia questioned.

Surprised, Ashara met her eyes.

“This Northman of yours, my ladies have found out all we can about him, and not a single person would speak ill of him...” Elia explained.

She followed Elia’s direction to the man in question, laughing along with Brandon as Robert Baratheon challenged another poor squire to a drinking contest. When grey met violet, she could not resist the urge to lower her eyes playfully.

“…I think he is as he appears, and you ought to resist the urge to play games.”

Elia’s tone caught her attention.

Although Ashara was not entertaining Ned to make Elia jealous, she was disappointed by her proactive encouragement.

Oberyn, who was not one to hide his uglier emotions, answered with barely disguised envy.

“Ned is a man, and all men think first with their cock. I daresay Brandon Stark is instructing shy Ned on the best way to get you alone so he can get under your skirt.”

Ashara was intrigued to see the quiet wolf lose his restraint, but there was something about that very characteristic that drew him to her. Ned was different from other men and it confused and excited her simultaneously.

“Then I suppose it’s a good thing that Arthur has gone with Rhaegar to find the Knight of the Laughing Tree, so you can discover whatever Eddard Stark is hiding beneath that… quiet exterior.” Ellaria commented slyly. 

Ashara offered nothing more on the topic and conversations drew back to speculations of the mystery night. Eventually, Rhaegar’s retinue returned, as did Elia to his side, and thus, Ashara sought out the man she could not get off her mind. 

When she happened upon him and Brandon, she heard her name and was curious to eavesdrop.

“Ashara must be a goddess of the stars in the flesh, do not you think, brother?” Ned praised.

“Yes, she is a pretty girl. I’ll grant you that.” Brandon interrupted, hands in surrender, seemingly only to keep his brother from going on about the matter.

“ _Pretty?_ Old Lord Whent’s daughter is pretty – but Ashara, she is a clear night’s horizon.” Ned huffed, clearly disgusted by Brandon’s lack of enthusiasm.

“I never knew Dornish girls made your blood run so _hot_ ,” Brandon teased causing a brilliant flush to begin to rise on his cheeks, and Ashara bit her tongue to keep from laughing.

She had never known a man as old as Ned who was so quick to blush, and it endeared him to her more.

“She could be a Dothraki girl for all that it matters; it is her light that I admire.”

“Aye, and I’ve seen you admiring her _light_ several times this week,” Brandon’s observation came out with a note of accusation.

“I have not.”

Just as Ashara was about to make her presence known, Brandon uttered words that made the warm fluttering in her stomach curdle.

“Don’t deny it, brother, I think it’s about time you forgot your honour before father makes a married man of you.”

“But father’s ambitions are secured by you and Lya, surely-”

“Oh come on Ned, Ashara is the kind of girl you bed, not wed.”

Ashara’s uneasiness grew concurrently with Ned’s silence.

She was unsure what made her so troubled. She had heard insults far worse, and the general distaste for the Dornish was not new. Still, tears pricked at her eyes as she hurried away, wishing to put great distance between herself and the Starks.

Yet, before she could escape the enormous hall, a pale hand caught her wrist.

Expecting Brandon, or worse, Ned, she whisked around ready to unleash hell, and was surprised to find the silver prince.

“Lady Ashara, may I have this dance?”

It was a strange request considering their interactions always revolved around Elia, and when she was absent to provide a buffer, they avoided one another at all costs.

She eyed him suspiciously but accepted regardless.

“Well, I can hardly deny my future king can I.” She jibed despite the tremble in her voice.

With Rhaegar, uneasiness turned into something akin to bitterness. They danced silently and the song, Jenny of Oldstones, did little to ease the tension between them.

“The Starks,” he spoke, watching her knowingly.

She was half convinced he was finally going to tell her to return to Starfall or propose a match to rid her from Elia’s side forever.

“What about them?” She spat through a forced smile that looked more like a grimace.

“They are good men-”

“Are we really doing _this?_ ” She snapped exasperatedly, entirely unready to be convinced for marriage by anyone, and least of all the man that claimed the one she loved for his own.

“They are good men… but we both know that it is neither the quiet wolf or wild one you truly want.”

In confusion, she cocked her head to the side and regarded eerie indigo eyes. If he was attempting to drive Elia and her further apart, he was going about it the completely wrong way.

“What do you know about what I want?”

He furrowed his silver brows and gave her a tragic smile before his gaze wondered to Elia, seated uncomfortably beside the muttering Mad King.

“I know about what my wife wants and needs-”

Panic set in, for now she was faced with the very real possibility of being expelled from Elia’s life.

“She chose who you and continues to do so every day. Please, don’t send me away and take what little she has left.” Ashara pleaded.

“You mistake my meaning. _You_ are what she needs, and soon she is going to need you very much.” He answered cryptically.

His words were all but a blessing and it left her head spinning. She searched for deception in his translucent eyes, and when she found none, she was conflicted further. He had given her hope, a tiny flicker against the winds, but it was there.

Before she could ask for clarification, Rhaegar bid her farewell.

As she gathered her thoughts, she spotted Ned Stark approaching and attempted to escape, unwilling to solve where he fit into all of it. However, she was not fast enough, for eventually, Ned caught her mere yards from the great hall.

“Lady Ashara.” He addressed her with a twinkling smile he tried to hide, so unlike his usual austere resting expression.

Although she had not forgotten his and Brandon’s conversation, when she met his lingering gaze, filled with tightly guarded want, it stirred something unfamiliar in her chest.

“Ned.” She sighed more than spoke.

“Are we walking today?”

Staring at his innocent hopefulness, the distress that had wound up in her dissipated.

She gestured to the nearby seats, and tentatively he joined her. He remained quiet, awaiting her words and she regarded him awhile.

There was something beautiful inside him that attracted her, and Ashara found herself reaching out, running her fingers along the line of his jaw before slipping over his lips.

“What would you say if I said that I _want_ you to kiss me?” she murmured, moving closer to him.

His brows shot up towards his hairline and she chuckled endearingly. He was so different from other men, who would have already claimed her lips and body for their own.

“I would say…” he faltered despite the evident conflict behind his eyes.

“… marry me.” 

All laughter died in her throat and deep sadness washed through her.

“I am sure many men have made the same offer…”

He was not wrong. A few had uttered the same two words, although usually in the midst of the throes of passion, when their cock was hard, and they wanted her to see to it.

“… and I know am a second son, with little to offer except a name, but I could be a good husband to you.” He blurted out with an edge of panic in his words.

“You don’t even truly know me Ned.”

A panic of her own gathered.

Anxiety twisted in her stomach for Ned roused something within her she never expected. Sometimes, if she squinted hard enough, she could make out visions of a life with him. She imagined more dances, sweaty nights inside the Red Keep; and voyages north to snowy castles or south to familiar towers. That a future with him was a tangible idea which she even considered terrified her; because suggested her feelings were more than mere curiosity.

“I know enough to know that I want you at my side,” he spoke with such fervour it was difficult to reconcile the idea that the shy Ned Stark that everyone knew and the man in front of her were the same person.

“My place has always been with Elia.”

“Do you not dream of more – a place for your own?”

“I-” She floundered.

His words reminded her of a conversation from long ago, when Elia had asked her the same thing. She had even warned of the difficulties of life when a husband and children came along. Yet, just as Ashara had known on that day, she knew now, that Elia was _her_ sun. Thinking of dark orbs, she was reminded that despite whatever she felt for Ned, he could not warm the loneliness in her bones, nor fill the Elia-sized abyss in her heart. Even the visions she conjured eventually saw her flinging herself from some tower top and succumbing to the curse of the Purple Ladies.

He was not deterred by her unresponsiveness and continued as if he had practiced his words before.

“I know you are heir to Starfall after your brother, and until he has a child, but even if you were to become Lady Dayne, Ser Arthur says according to your customs our children could continue on your family name, and I could have my father speak to your mother, we could make arrangements – ”

Ashara silenced him with a kiss, swallowing the rest of his protest. His lips remained still beneath hers, and when she pulled back a fraction, expecting to see horror, and saw unadulterated hunger, she was shaken.

Again, she brought their lips together and eventually he responded; all of a sudden, and all at once. He kissed with great passion and little grace as he hunted her lips like the direwolf on the Stark banners might prey. She traced her tongue between his lips and coaxed them open and was thoroughly elated by the heat from his mouth. For some reason, she had expected the winter lord to taste like snow instead of fire.

However, she still felt the restrain in his movements, the iron latch onto control he had, and she sought to awaken the beast within. When she felt him release a guttural moan from the depths of his core, she felt tears prick at her eyes, the hurricane inside her irked.

“Stop,” he gasped, restricting himself with a tight perse of his lips, like if he opened them he might devour her. 

Overwhelmed with an ugly mix of unexpected feelings of want, fear, insecurity and _rage;_ she erupted.

“Is this not what you want!” She snapped.

His forehead creased in confusion as she began to fall apart.

“No I-”

She slid a hand down his chest and grabbed the bulge in his tunic, wrenching a groan from his lips even as he caught her wrist. 

“No.” He said firmer.

“Come on, Ned, I am the kind of girl you bed, not wed… isn’t that right?” She accused.

“You heard.”

“Well come on then, take me to bed.” She taunted cruelly, slipping onto his lap, and straddling him despite his clear mortification.

She was overwhelmed with emotions and took it out on Ned because she knew how to self-destruct better than anything else. Some twisted part of her wanted to make him hate her because it is how she felt about herself. She hated herself for not wanting the things normal women did – a husband and children – and hated herself for wanting to want them.

“Ashara.”

He near enough pushed her onto the floor.

Beats passed in total stillness, and they stared at each other wide-eyed, both stunned by the turn of events.

Ned opened his mouth wordlessly a few times before his confession came.

“I assure you that I do not at all feel the same way as my brother,” he spoke softly.

“And what is it that you feel?”

Ashara attempted to divine his motives in his eyes. She noticed then, they were not his usual grey, but silver. Sharp and cutting. Silver like the wolf that cried to the moon, and silver like the shackles that bound him to honour _._

Nonetheless, she knew the truth. Ned was as noble and good as he presented, and it was her who was soiled.

“ _Love_.” He whispered.

Ashara was rendered speechless as she came to a realisation. Ned had appeared in her life when she was most lost and somehow wormed his way into her heart. Somewhere in her broken heart, between the sharp edges and spaces Elia occupied, resided Ned Stark.

He took her hand and waited until she found his eyes.

“I want to love you, Ashara – _all_ of you, not solely your body.”

He watched her closely, and she could tell he was trying to decipher her thoughts from her expressions.

Eventually, she sighed and conceded all pretence.

“Ned I was not upset by what Brandon said. I’m upset that despite spending less time with me than you, he can see me clearly for who I am, and you can’t.” She explained.

She watched his heart crumble before her.

“What do you mean?”

“I am not a blushing maiden afraid of sexuality, nor am I woman fit for a castle or marriage. I will be no man’s wife.”

He shook his head gently.

“Ashara. You are worth more than your body. I see you.”

His gaze pierced into her, and she understood he was gravely serious, and _not_ for the first time, he disarmed her.

Again, she was rendered quiet.

“What’s going on with you?” He asked knowingly.

Triggered, Ashara scurried away and put some distance between them, unable to have him so close.

“N-nothing.”

Unforgettable phantom sounds of drums and footsteps with no source rang in her ears.

_Da, da, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum._

He reached after her, taking her hands and trying to be gentle in his approach.

“I can handle it.”

But she knew _she_ could not.

This was more than about Elia and Ned, this was about what happened to her as a child, as all things seemed to be. She had been broken and sullied. Consequently, she could not love what was good for her, and knowingly chased what she could not have.

_Da, da, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum._

“No-no-no.” She repeated again and again.

She dropped his hands and walked away from him again.

“Just tell me,” he pleaded quietly, voice soft, frowning and furrowing his eyebrows.

Then, the strangest statement left his lips.

“It’s me, isn’t it. You wish it were Brandon standing here-”

Her heart sank and she felt like she would crash to floor for how crushed he looked.

“No Ned, it’s me… there is something wrong with me,” she sighed, frustrated with herself.

“I can’t give you what you want because I am broken beyond repair.”

There was a small stretch of silence.

“You deserve love in return, and I don’t have it in me to give that to you… no matter how much I wish I could, gods do I wish I could.”

She still felt soiled and dirty and unlovable. She knew that was why she clung onto Elia so desperately, for only with her she did not feel so fractured. 

She hurried away from him, unnerved by Ned Stark entirely. She had never been quite so shaken by someone seeing something in herself she did not see. With a desperate need to prove herself right about herself, when she returned to the great hall, she sought out a drunken Brandon Stark. Despite the eyes, black and grey orbs, which followed her with concern, she lured him away with dark intentions.

She set to him her honeyed tongue, and despite his reservations, in the end, he was unable to resist.

She had experienced sex that was tender, even loving in nature; had hurried romps; and drunken, fumbling affairs. Yet with Brandon Stark, it felt freeing until she came. Moments after he walked away, she felt disgusted at what she did; but that was a state she had functioned in for so long, the feeling was a homecoming.

She knew she was not normal. Nothing about her life had been normal, and she was a worse person for it. She spent all her life trying to repair the things that other people broke. _Fucking_ whoever she wanted, however she wanted, made Ashara forget for a few moments that no matter what she did, she could still see the cracks. 

She knew it was wrong to use people – Brandon, her brain hurled like an accusation – but without the sun, she could only make sense of herself through self-destruction and hatred.

She rationalized it as a victimless crime; she got off, they got off, and all parties left satisfied. People only got hurt when they sought more than just her body because she did not share the rest.

However, that was not quite true, Ashara knew. There was one person who had all of her. The person she had no word for. Normal people had husbands, mistresses, and paramours, but none of those terms suited what they had. That she tried to pretend otherwise had pulled a whole heap of people into her mess.

“Why on earth are you so stupid,” Ashara muttered to herself, head in her hands.

“You don’t strike me as stupid, Lady Ashara,” a gruff voice answered, startling her.

Ashara’s eyes shot up, spotting Ser Barristan Selmy near her.

She did not know Barristan well at all, for he and the Lord Commander were almost always with Aerys.

“You’re very kind, Ser… but, I have made some indescribably stupid decisions.” She laughed nervously, willing herself not to cry.

Barristan reached into his pocket, pulling a handkerchief. She took the cloth and dried her eyes of the tears she had not noticed were falling.

“I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but having been around as long as I have, I can suspect your tears are for love, yes?”

Ashara nodded sadly, her lip pouting.

“Troubles of the heart are always the most difficult. I have heard it said that love is like war; very easy to start and near impossible to finish.”

A flood of tears escaped, and she found herself clutching onto the old knight.

As he shushed her, she felt his genuineness and for some strange reason, she also felt trust.

Eventually, a squire came calling Ser Barristan back to the King.

“May an old man offer you some words of advice?”

She nodded, sniffling.

“The errors we make often inform us of the things we must heal inside of ourselves. Do not be too hard on yourself but take this opportunity to learn and to grow… grow towards love… not away from it.”

Finally, Ashara knew the truth, and she could no longer hide from it. She was in love with Elia, _and_ she loved Ned. However, she was no good to either of them if she could not love herself. Elia shielded her from the darkest parts of herself. Ned made her confront them.

That was the truest truth which she had feared and hid from herself for so long. Instead of a storm, for the first time, she felt peace. Now that it was acknowledged, Ashara knew she could never bury it again.

She released a breath so deep it was as if she was breathing for the first time.

“I should go to His Grace. I have lingered too long.” He prompted, and with a wry smile, he bowed over her hand.

“Thank you, Ser,” she replied, squeezing his hand as he left.

Although he would never know, the old knight rescued her from herself, and for that she was eternally grateful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very long chapter but hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thought :)

**Author's Note:**

> Would love to hear your thoughts and ideas on the chapters!


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